


Until I Can Say It Myself

by westernredcedar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU: Olympics, Angst, Coming Out, Fluffy Angst, Getting Together, Hate Crime (not against a main character), Homophobia, Ice Dancer Bitty, M/M, Slurs, So fluffy too, nhl jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: What is a deeply closeted Jack Zimmermann to do when faced with an adorable ice dancer who just wants to get to know him? He has no clue of course, but at the Olympics, surrounded by friends and foes, who knows what might happen.





	Until I Can Say It Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ronanlynchisneversleepingagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlynchisneversleepingagain/gifts).



> At long, long last, here is my Fandom Trumps Hate offering for the wonderful ronanlynchisneversleepingagain! After winning my auction, she sent me many wonderful prompts, including one for an Olympics AU that was more edgy and angsty, where Jack and Bitty don't really get along. Well, I learned it is very difficult for my brain to allow Jack and Bitty to not love each other instantly, so this went a different angsty direction, hon! I hope you still enjoy it, and thank you so much!
> 
> Please note that there is a hate crime against an OC that takes place off screen, and that dealing with the aftershocks of it is a major part of this story. In addition, in order to forward the particular narrative I wanted to tell, I ended up making the Canadian hockey national team and organization look pretty terrible. This is completely fictional. I assume and hope that the poor way the organization handles things in this fic is not at all how the real organization would address such issues. I also consider this a fantasy, so many things that would probably not go this way in real life at all, especially bureauocracy, get to happen quite easily. Just keep an open mind. Heh.
> 
> I very specifically did not set this fic at any particular Olympics or include any real hockey players, so you get to choose the setting and accessory players for yourself. Let your imagination go wild! Also, this is very much an AU. I mean, Lardo is a Canadian ice dancer and NHL players go to the Olympics, for goodness sake, so let that be your guide as to how much I may have let things just go ahead and be different. 
> 
> Lastly, though I got impatient in the end as I do because I wanted to post, much of this was carefully beta'ed by the wonderful wrathofthestag. Thank you, hon!

*

The day the roster for the Canadian Olympic Ice Hockey Team is announced, the first celebratory text Jack gets is from his teammate Eliot Bonet.

 **Bonesy** _I’m so fucking excited, Zimmermann, I wanna straight up fuck you in the ass_

Jack is home by himself, so no one is there to see him put his phone down on the sofa and walk around his apartment in an attempt to release the sudden tightness that grips across his chest. 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he grabs his phone again.

 **Jack** _You’re not my type, Bones._

 **Bonesy** _Wait until you see me with a gold medal around my fuckin neck, dude. OH CANADA_

 **Jack** _It’s gonna be great._

 **Bonesy** _Holy shit Olympics. YEEESSSS._

Even though his chest still hurts, Jack feels himself breathe again. Bonesy is his friend. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t mean anything by it. Besides, holy shit, they are going to the damn Olympics. Jack tries to shake off his unease, staring out the window at the Providence skyline, imagining.

His ringtone breaks him out of his reverie. It’s his parents. Jack pulls in a big breath, and takes the call. 

*

In the end, six guys from the Providence Falconers are named to national teams: Canada, Sweden, Russia, U.S., Czech Republic. There’s a champagne celebration in the locker room after their next home game. 

“How I supposed to play against you, Zimmboni? Pass to you by accident?” Alexei Mashkov says to Jack as they toast each other.

“That’ll be real helpful, Tater. I’ll let you wear the gold medal for a few minutes as a thank you,” Jack replies with a grin.

“Never mind. Russia best,” Tater says, nudging Jack with his hip. 

*

Two weeks before the Games begin, there’s a PR event in Ottawa. All of the members of Team Canada, regardless of sport, are invited. Most of the hockey players can’t get away mid-season, but Jack happens to be out for three games resting a strained hamstring, so his manager, Guy, arranges Jack’s schedule so he can represent the team. 

There’s a reception the first night. Jack wears his favorite game day suit, the dark grey with his blue tie. He hopes the event is short. The only other guys from the team who are there he’s only met briefly: Kloves, who Jack has played against for years but doesn’t know personally, and a hotshot kid named Carter out of Calgary, who’s in his second year. 

They shake hands with an array of smiling politicians who all blend into one for Jack. There’s a short speech, and a group photo op. They’ll do it all again the next day with the Prime Minister, but this time in their official team coats. Jack wishes he was in Dallas with the Falcs. 

Once the ceremony part is over, Jack stations himself at one of the tall tables with a seltzer water, plate of shrimp, and chicken skewers. He plays a game with himself, trying to suss out what sports are represented in the room. He thinks he can identify the downhillers by height, but they might be speed skaters. There’s a couple of tiny women he imagines must be figure skaters. Kloves is laughing in the middle of a group of identical-looking blonde women who Jack decides might be cross-country skiers, or possibly snowboarders. He’s been introduced to the members of the women’s hockey team who are in attendance, even managed a bit of small talk with one of them, before he needs to retreat and regroup. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Zimmermann?” 

A blond man, red-cheeked and smiling, sets his drink down on the table next to Jack’s seltzer. 

“Hey.”

“I’m Eric Bittle. Ice dancing?” 

Eric Bittle holds out his hand, and Jack takes it. It’s warm, and Eric’s grip is firm. 

“Good to meet you.”

Eric Bittle is wearing a purple and blue plaid suit jacket with a lavender bow tie, and he’s bouncing a bit on his toes like he’s nervous. 

“I’m sorry to be a pest, hon, but would you mind givin’ me an autograph? My momma is a huge fan, and she’d pee herself if I brought her something you signed.”

“Oh. Sure.” 

Eric holds out a little notebook and pen, and Jack signs. 

“I could send her a signed jersey when I get home,” Jack says without thinking. “If that would be better.”

Jack looks up to see Eric Bittle staring at him with big brown eyes. “Are you serious, hon? Because that would be amazing.”

Jack lets himself smile a little. “Sure. We’re teammates now, right? It’s no problem.” He pauses and then says, “I guess I should be asking for your autograph, too.”

Bittle’s cheeks get even more flushed and he laughs. “Aren’t you a gentleman, Jack Zimmermann. Don’t you go pretending you’ve ever heard of me before now, cause I won’t believe you anyway.”

“Sorry.”

“Lord, if you had time in your life to follow ice dancing, I’d be yelling at those coaches of yours that they aren’t working you hard enough.”

“I’ll get to know now,” Jack says. 

“Well, I won’t turn away a new fan,” Bittle replies with a laugh, and Jack feels his own face warm. 

From across the room, Kloves catches Jack’s eye and nods towards Bittle, his brows raised high. Jack isn’t sure what he’s supposed to make of that expression. It throws him a bit off kilter so he looks away, back at Bittle, and sips his seltzer. 

“I, um. You don’t sound very Canadian.”

Bittle laughs. “Oh, I’m Canadian all right! I got my citizenship six whole months ago, so that we could qualify. But, indeed, I’m from Georgia, originally. America Georgia. Not that other one.”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Gotcha.” 

“Don’t be shy. If you have any questions about Canadian government systems, national symbols, provincial capitals, feel free. I had to pass a test! I still have my flashcards,” Bittle nods proudly. 

Jack bites back a laugh, and finds himself actually trying to think of a question to quiz Bittle on, when a hand suddenly descends onto his shoulder and clamps on. 

“Dude, there you are!” 

It’s Kloves. Jack has hardly spoken to him at the event. He’s a defenseman for the Schooners, so they don’t even meet very often during the season. 

“Hey,” Jack says, confused, looking back at Bittle.

Bittle smiles at Jack, and grabs his drink from the table. “Oh goodness, sorry. I’ll get out of your hair. Nice to meet you, Jack,” he says. He gives Kloves a glance and then retreats quickly back into the crowded room.

Jack watches him walk away, his heart pounding a little.

“Glad I could rescue you, bro.” Kloves claps a hand hard against Jack’s shoulder. 

“Rescue?” 

“That… skater guy. Buttle? Dude, fag.” Kloves’s voice drops to a deep whisper. “Looked like he had the hots for you or something.”

Jack’s vision fogs over for a moment. He stares at his own hands, resting on the table. 

“He was just asking for an autograph for his mom,” he manages.

“Yeah. Sure.” Kloves looks over his shoulder towards the group of women he’d been talking with earlier. “Forget it. You coming out with us, bro?”

Jack’s brain rockets through a hundred reasons why he doesn't want to spend another minute anywhere near Kloves, but he bites down on all of them, and thinks instead about building his team. His Olympic team. 

“Yeah,” he says. He follows Kloves, choking down his own spiraling thoughts.

As they head out the door together, Jack looks back once, but he doesn’t see Eric Bittle again. 

*

An hour later, Jack makes his excuses to the blonde snowboarder who keeps touching his knee and leaning too far into his personal space. He blames his bad leg, nods a goodnight to Kloves and Carter, and makes his way back to the hotel alone. 

Jack lies in bed awake for hours. He finally drifts off around two, thinking about how he never got Bittle’s address or phone number so that he could send him the jersey for his mother. 

*

The event with the Prime Minister the following day is in the Centre Block on Parliament Hill. Jack manages to avoid his teammates in the morning, calling his own car and bundling into it with his new maple leaf team coat and toque. 

There’s more hand-shaking, and many photos. The hockey team members stand together in the group picture. Kloves throws a big arm over Jack’s shoulder. 

They are going to the Olympics. Jack can’t help but smile.

The event breaks up quickly after that. Kloves and Carter shit-talk with Jack about who might be in what line for a few minutes before they have to go. Jack has time before his flight, so he declines their offer to share a car. Instead, he lingers in the building, checking out the architecture and watching the crowd of athletes.

He spots Eric Bittle eventually, arm-in-arm with a short, dark-haired woman. They are laughing and leaning into each other in a familiar, comfortable way. Jack guesses that she must be his skating partner. 

While Jack watches, the woman kisses Bittle on the cheek and trots away towards the restrooms. Jack feels a little rush of nerves, but he still manages to get his voice to work. 

“Hey. Euh. Bittle,” Jack calls.

Eric Bittle looks somewhere between surprised and pleased when he glances over at Jack. Jack walks over to him, trying not to worry about who might be watching, or wondering. 

“Hi there, Jack! Don’t we look adorable all matching like this?” 

Jack bites at the inside of his cheek and nods. “Yeah. Good coats.” 

“It’s so real now, I just can’t hardly believe it. And the Prime Minister? How is this even my life?” 

Bittle’s smile is so bright, Jack almost has to look away. His heart starts racing like a timer is ticking on this conversation and he has to get moving. “Bittle, I didn’t get your address yesterday. To send the jersey. You know, for your mom.”

Bittle looks up at him with those big brown eyes again. “Oh lord, hon, were you really gonna do that?”

“Sure,” Jack says, pulling out his phone. “Definitely.” 

“Well, that’s just too much. But let me give you my number and then I can text you all of the info.”

Somehow, once he has Bittle’s number programmed into his phone, Jack feels like he can breathe a little easier. 

Jack is in the midst of sending Bittle a text, just so he has his number too, when Bittle says, “Would you believe I played hockey for a short while once?”

Jack looks up. “Huh. No, I guess not.”

“Oh yes. I was about fourteen and I’d been figure skating for seven years, and I’d just had it, you know. The jumps were getting scary, but mostly, I was so damn tired of everyone making assumptions about me, all the stereotypes. It was exhausting. I thought, fuck it, I’m quitting figure skating, and I’m gonna play ice hockey, and let everyone deal with me then.”

Jack’s stomach feels like it’s in his throat. “How did it go?”

Bittle laughs, light and easy, tapping at his phone as he talks. “Oh, that lasted about a week! Honestly, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but how anyone who isn’t a, no offense…” Bittle gestures at Jack, “...big, straight, white boy survives in your sport is a miracle. Lord, I wanted to be some role model, defying expectations, but I didn’t have the stomach for all that macho bullshit.” 

Bittle pauses, and looks at Jack with a grimace. “Uh. No offense. That came out wrong, hon.”

Jack shakes his head. “No. I get it.” It feels so good to say it out loud, even if it’s only a fraction of what Jack wishes he could say. 

“I mean, lord, how anyone like me could survive in your world. They’d have to be so tough.”

Jack can only nod. 

“Anyhoo, I realized I might as well just embrace the stereotypes, and I started ice dancing. No jumps and way more ruffles! It’s not like what everyone thought about me wasn’t true.” 

“Yeah. Huh.” 

It’s quiet for a minute, and Jack realizes he’s forgotten where they are and what they are there for. He stares at Bittle, and Bittle looks back at him, his head cocked at a little angle. 

“Sorry, Jack. I do go on. I shouldn’t take any more of your time. Besides, Larissa is probably looking for me by now.”

Jack nods again. “Yeah, okay. Text me your address though.”

“I will, hon. You boys practice hard, cause I’m gonna be hollering my ass off at you if you lose to Costa Rica or something.”

“I don’t think they have a hockey team?”

“Well, then, definitely don’t lose to them!” 

Jack laughs. “Maybe I’ll come and shout goalie taunts during ice dancing.”

Bittle’s entire face lights up, “Oh lord, I dare you, Jack Zimmermann.”

Jack can’t stop smiling most of the way to the airport.

*

 **Bonesy** _How was Ottawa? It was bloodbath in Dallas. Get back here, we need you._

 **Jack** _Yes, I saw how much you need me._

 **Bonesy** _Ass_

*

 **Tater** _Canada coat not so good as Russia coat. Saw picture. We get fur hood!_

 **Jack** _They’re both better than the US though_

 **Tater** _)))) Yes!_

*

 **Bittle** _Glad we got to meet! Go Falcs!_

 **Jack** _Haha. Thanks. It was good to meet you too._

 **Bittle** _Don’t be a stranger._

*

 **Kloves** _Team Canada, boys! Fucking awesome. Even if we do have to wear those gay-ass coats._

 **Carter** _Ha! Seriously._

Jack leans back into his seat at the gate. A tinny voice over the PA calls passengers at the next gate to board. He stares out the window towards the runways and watches the planes taking off one after another. 

He bites at the inside of his cheek, and replies.

 **Jack** _Yeah. Looking forward to playing with you both._

*

Jack gets back to Providence and is green-lighted by the doctors to start practicing with the team again. 

He finds a few minutes to ask PR to get him a jersey to sign and send. As he packs it up to mail with a short note, Jack thinks about Bittle, trying to use hockey to be someone new, someone who doesn’t get judged so easily. How quickly he learned how impossible that was. 

One evening when he’s home early, on a whim he searches for video of Bittle and his partner. Three hours later he emerges from a deep dive into recent ice dancing history, including watching way too many interviews and medal ceremonies. 

**Jack** _I liked your performance at the World Championships last year. You should have won._

 **Bittle** _Jack Zimmermann? What in god's name are you doing watching that?_

 **Jack** _Have to learn more about the sport if I’m gonna be a fan_

 **Jack** _Cool costumes, too._

 **Bittle** _Well that’s too sweet! My partner, Larissa, she designs all of our costumes. Paints the fabric or dyes it. She’s an amazing artist._

 **Jack** _Tell her I think she’s great_

 **Bittle** _I will, mister. She was all pissy that I didn’t introduce you to her in Ottawa. She loves hockey like a religion._

 **Jack** _Heh. Well, I’ll meet her soon enough._

 **Bittle** _Yeah, I suppose you will!_

Jack doesn’t let himself think too hard about why he’s learning the difference between a short dance and a long, or why he’s texted Bittle several times already since returning home. He knows it feels good to have made a new friend, and he lets himself be satisfied with that.

*

Edding, one of the assistant coaches for the national team, comes to meet with Jack and Eliot while they are on the road in Edmonton. He gives them piles of paperwork to read, a travel schedule, assigns them tape to watch to prep on their own. 

As they are finishing up their meal, Edding adds, like an afterthought, “Oh, and once we’re there, you boys keep your dicks to yourselves, you hear? You gotta be one-hundred percent focused on hockey, and last thing we need is hysterical fangirls who think you’re gonna marry them after one fuck.”

Bonesy manages to laugh it off, which Jack appreciates, since his stomach is in his throat. 

“No worries, sir. I’m happily engaged, and Zimmermann here is a real gentleman. We’ll watch out for each other.” 

Edding looks skeptically at them both over the top of his glasses, but Jack just swallows and nods and ignores Bonesy elbowing him in the ribs. 

*

Jack’s phone rings one evening, after he’s home from a matinee game and pulling together a microwave dinner for himself. 

He checks the screen. **Bittle**.

Jack gets a little surge of electricity through his chest. Bittle. Jack answers.

“Jack, it’s Eric!” Bittle sounds so cheerful, Jack can hardly take it.

“Hey. Hi.”

“I just had to call and thank you in person for the jersey, hon.”

“Oh.” Jack is thankful that he is home alone, since it feels like his face is on fire. “No problem.” 

“My momma and me have a pretty rocky relationship, and it was just really great to be able to give her something she really wanted. You should’a seen her face. I just. It meant a lot that you took the time and I just wanted to give you my sincerest thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Bittle. For sure.” Jack wants to ask more, about Bittle's family, and what he means by “rocky,” but he doesn’t know how to start.

There’s silence on the phone, and Jack’s anxiety spikes for a moment, but then Bittle says, “When do you guys start your... hiatus, or whatever y’all call it?”

“Heh. One more week and then we’re off.”

“For your working vacation?”

Jack laughs. “Exactly. But I’m not complaining. There’s some really talented guys who didn’t make the roster, so it’s a real honor, you know. I’m gonna make the most of it.”

“Jack Zimmermann, you sound like a television sound bite right now.” 

Jack can hear the grin in Bittle’s voice.

“Sorry. I hate the phone, actually.”

Bittle’s tone shifts completely. “Oh, I didn’t mean… I’ll let you go.”

Jack interrupts, his pulse suddenly making its presence known. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking. I just get kinda… you don’t need to go.”

“Oh… okay?”

Jack blunders on. “When are you heading over?”

“Four days. We’re doing some sightseeing and getting used to the time change and all before the madness begins.” 

“Where are you planning to visit?”

Jack’s microwave beeps and he pulls his dinner out, phone trapped between his shoulder and ear. 

Bittle’s voice regains the lightness. “Are you actually asking, because I am currently looking at a detailed itinerary if you really want to know.”

Jack takes a bite of lasagna, and with his mouth full says, “I’m asking.”

“Well, in that case… ” Bittle starts, and Jack settles in on the sofa with his food and his phone, still trying hard not to think about why he’s doing any of this. 

*

Most of the Canadian men’s ice hockey team meets together for the first time on a charter plane out of Toronto the night after the NHL goes dark for the Olympics. Jack has been packed and ready for three days. Sleep is hard to come by.

There’s a loud camaraderie on the plane immediately, hugs and chirps and back slapping, and a few tussles in the aisle. 

Jack is overwhelmed for a few minutes, but then he settles into a seat next to Justin Oluransi, a defenseman Jack knows from their one year playing together at Samwell before Jack was recruited away by the Aces. Jack hadn’t known Justin too well, but he’s admired his play since he was drafted four years ago. Jack had kept himself pretty removed from most of his teammates during his two years in college, but it’s still a good memory for him, and seeing Ransom is surprisingly comforting. 

“Zimmermann! Bro!” Ransom envelops Jack in a warm hug, and Jack just manages to hug back. 

They chat about nothing for a few minutes as the rest of the team settles into their seats: the flight, the weather, the time change, current team standings and what might happen after the break. 

After a longer pause in the conversation, Ransom says, “Always wondered what would have happened if you’d stuck it out as a Wellie for another two years.”

“Huh,” Jack breathes, suddenly thrust back in time. “Yeah. I had a rough start in Vegas, so I can’t say I’ve never wondered the same.” 

“I know. We always watched, you know.”

Jack didn’t know. 

Ransom continues. “We had a quality team, and Knight was a great captain after you left, but…” Ransom shrugs and taps Jack on the shoulder. “I’m just glad we get to play together again. So sweet, bro!”

Jack swallows down a lump in his throat. “You ever see any of those guys?”

“Yeah, man.” Ransom pauses and then adds, “Shitty and Holster are flying out for this whole thing, actually. Although they’ve both threatened to root for the Americans.”

Jack grins, flooded with memories of a team he thought he’d left long in the past. “Sounds about right.”

A sudden roar of excitement sounds from a few seats behind them, interrupting Ransom’s reply. They both swivel around to look.

Kloves is standing in the aisle with a flag draped over his shoulders. “Team fuucking Canada, man! Fuck, YEEESSS!”

The entire plane erupts into hoots and howls, pounding on seat backs and tray tables. 

“Dudes, we are gonna get so much pussy,” Kloves states loudly as he sits back down.

Someone nearby adds, “ _International_ pussy.”

“Fuck yeah. Chicks that can squeeze the life out of you with their thighs. Oh my god. Norwegians and shit.”

Voices echo around the plane. “I put my money on Zimmermann to score the most ass.” 

“Nah, it’s always ugly fuckers like Tailium who get all the tail.” 

“Fuck right I do.” 

“That’s enough, gentlemen.” The unmistakable stern voice of their coach, Halvert, from the front section. 

Ransom rolls his eyes at Jack, which does very little to slow the gnawing ache of acid in Jack’s belly. He closes his eyes, and tries not to listen. 

The plane takes off. 

*

The first days are a whirlwind. Jack hardly processes the Opening Ceremonies he’s so overwhelmed by the crowds and the exhaustion of travel. He looks for Bittle, but the figure skating contingent is nowhere in sight. Jack lets himself be surrounded by teammates; he doesn’t make it out of the scrum for the entire night. He walks between Ransom and Bonesy and the only moments he specifically remembers later are the Olympic flame being lit and a strange performance piece involving large snowflakes made of mirrors.

The hockey team is housed together in the same building. It’s utilitarian, but he has his own room, and there’s enough space to stretch and run through his morning routine, so it works for Jack.

The team gets on the ice together for the first time the next day. There’s a lot of press and a lot of fans, but the practice is dead serious. They’ve never played together before, and they have three days to prepare for the first round robin game against Sweden. The guys are all pros, though. Jack is surprised at how easy it is to work with his line. They scrimmage, and it feels like a team.

At two a.m., when Jack wakes up from a nightmare sweaty and shaking and unable to get back to sleep, he finally remembers to check his phone. He’s had a text sitting, unread, since the afternoon.

 **Bittle** _Heard that y’all were on the ice today! Glad you made it!_

It's too late to respond, so Jack just reads the words over and over until his eyes shut and he drifts back to sleep. 

*

Jack isn’t able to text back until after practice the next day. 

**Jack** _Thanks, Bittle. I didn’t see you at the Opening Ceremonies._

 **Bittle** _Jack Zimmermann!! Yeah, I couldn’t go. Boo. We were already competing, good lord. No rest for the wicked._

 **Jack** _Hope it’s going well._

 **Bittle** _It is! In medal contention for the team!!_

 **Jack** _Awesome_

 **Bittle** _You better practice hard. I hear Costa Rica is looking good this year!_

 **Jack** _Haha. Don’t worry, we’ve got their number._

 **Bittle** _Maybe we’ll bump into each other some time._

 **Jack** _Yeah. That would be great._

*

The Canadian figure skating team wins silver on the third night of the Games. 

Jack hears about it on television at team dinner, trying to watch and listen with one ear while Bonesy rants about his girlfriend in the other. 

The report shows a short clip of Bittle and Larissa in a utterly mystifying lift and spin, along with shots of the singles and pairs skaters, and then the entire team holding up their medals. Jack’s fingers itch to grab his phone and text Bittle immediately. 

“Silver for the fucking fags! Making Canada proud!”

Jack tries not to look, but he can’t help himself. It’s Kloves, mouth full, pointing at the television and shaking his head. The room is full of hockey players. No one says anything.

The normal buzz of conversation picks up again. Bonesy mutters, “I wish he wouldn’t say shit like that,” but only loud enough for Jack to hear. 

*

Team Canada wins their first game. Jack gets a goal and an assist. He can feel the entire team heaving out a sigh of relief that they haven’t failed to live up to the hype.

“I thought it would feel different, you know? More glorious or something?” Bonesy says to Jack as they trek back to their lodging after the game. “But it was just a game. And we played the shit out of it.”

“It’s just a game all the time, Bones,” Jack says. 

*

The days are surprisingly routine. The only differences that really mess with Jack’s routine have to do with sharing the ice with so many other teams. 

He gets a huge hug and a pat on the ass from Mashkov as they cross paths during a transition in ice time on the fifth day. 

“Too bad about still no fur hood, Zimmboni. Poor Canada. So chilly.”

“Yeah, you can snuggle your furry coat for comfort when we kick your asses this weekend, Tater.”

There’s also more downtime than Jack expected, considering the press Guy has scheduled, the team practices, and his workout regimen. He keeps one eye on the other sports, trying not to think too much about why ice dancing is at the top of that list, just in case he is able to sneak away during his free hours to catch a live competition. 

The times finally line up between morning skate and arrival at the arena for their next game, against Lithuania. 

The figure skating venue is in the same complex as the hockey arena, and Jack is able to get access with his credentials without a problem. He tries not to think about why he’s got his cap pulled low, or why he’s walking fast and purposefully to the empty seats near the rafters, where no one might accidentally catch him on camera. 

He holds his breath through Bittle’s entire short program. He’s watched video of enough Bittle and Duan performances to recognize that they are a little shaky, but still able to nail the most difficult elements beautifully. It’s entirely different to see them performing live, far more impressive to hear the ice under their blades, see how quick they are from one end of the rink to the other. They can really skate.

Jack sneaks back out in time to meet Ransom at the outdoor snack bar as planned. 

“You able to get some rest?” Rans asks, his mouth full of nachos.

“Close enough,” Jack replies.

*

During second period of the Lithuania game, Ransom looks down the bench, catches Jack’s eye, shakes his head, and points up into the stands. Their old college teammates, Shitty and Holster, are in seats across from their bench, hollering and dancing, wearing a ridiculous amount of Canada gear and holding a little sign that says, “Marry me, Oluransi.” 

Jack gets a happy little knot in his chest to see them. Shitty, in particular, had been a… well, a real friend to Jack during their two years playing together. Jack hasn’t seen either of them for years. He stares up at them until he thinks they might see him looking back, and then raises a hand in greeting. They hoot and wave and even across the arena Jack can hear Shitty’s shout of “Fuck yes! Zimmermann!” 

After the win, he follows Ransom out of the locker room to where Shitty and Holster are waiting. 

“You fucking beaut, Zimmermann, my long-lost brother,” Shitty says, arms tight around Jack’s back. Jack realizes, several seconds into it, that he hasn’t been hugged like this for years. 

“Good to see you, Shitty,” Jack says back, surprised by how much he means it. 

“Yeah, it was fine that you didn’t bother to call, ass. Not like we missed you or anything.” Jack can hear the fine line Holster’s walking between gentle teasing and actual scolding.

“I know,” Jack says. “Sorry.”

At that moment, Kloves blasts out of the doors behind them. He stops and gives the four of them a long look. 

“Ah. Your loving husbands, Oluransi? Saw their little mating sign. Didn’t know that shit worked.”

Holster crosses his arms and gives Kloves a death stare, but Shitty smiles brightly at Kloves. “Whoa. There’s room for all, my friend. You mad we didn’t propose to you, too?”

Kloves face reddens and he takes a step towards Shitty. “What did you say, asshole?”

“Didn’t want you to think we failed to appreciate your gorgeous ass, beautiful,” Shitty adds with a wink.

Kloves’ eyes go dull and dark, and Jack’s pulse rockets. He steps in between Kloves and Shitty, one hand on Kloves’ chest. “Let it go, man. Go home. We’re just catching up with old friends.”

Kloves shoves, and Jack staggers back a step in surprise. “Don’t fucking touch me, Zimmermann,” he says, and then he straightens his suit jacket and stalks away.

“What a charming teammate!” Holster says after a moment, his eyebrows raised. “How’d you two get so lucky?”

Ransom shrugs. “They forgot to screen for assholes when they put the team together. I’ll suggest they add a survey question next time.”

“ _Are you an asshole? Check this box_ ,” Holster says and Ransom chuckles.

Jack is still watching the air where Kloves disappeared down the hallway. He feels like he might throw up.

Shitty’s hand rests gently on his shoulder. “You okay, Jack?” he asks, voice low.

Jack swallows hard and focuses on the hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Fine.”

*

Back in his room alone after dinner with the Wellies, Jack pulls out his phone.

 **Jack** _What do you do when someone says something really hateful about you? How do you handle it?_

His phone buzzes a reply in only a few seconds.

 **Bittle** _Jack? You okay?_

 **Jack** _Yeah. Just thinking._

 **Bittle** _Well, people say a whole lot of nasty business about me all of the time, so first of all, I remind myself that if I let them get to me that is what they want, and the last thing I want is to give them any satisfaction. And then I just go out there and kick ass and don’t hide one single thing about how fabulous I am! Who the fuck cares what anyone else has to say?_

 **Jack** _Haha. Sounds easy when you say it like that._

 **Bittle** _Oh, I forgot to add that I am absolutely terrible at doing that. But it’s what I try to do. It’s what I want to do._

 **Jack** _Huh. Yeah._

 **Bittle** _Is someone talking shit about you? Do you need me to defend your honor? Challenge someone to a duel? Or a dance off?_

Jack laughs out loud, alone in his room. 

**Jack** _No, I’m good. You should go to sleep, right? Medals tomorrow?_

 **Bittle** _As if I’m going to sleep, honey. We’re skating in the final group. I’m a giant pile of nerves incapable of anything but baking pies._

 **Jack** _You’re capable of talking to me._

 **Bittle** _Baking pies and talking. That’s it._

 **Jack** _Should I stay up with you and talk some more?_

 **Bittle** _Sweetheart, you can talk to me all night if you need to. I sure as hell won’t mind._

Jack leans back against the headboard of his bed, smiling.

 **Jack** _I might do it. You should be careful what you wish for._

Bittle doesn’t respond for so long that Jack eventually gets himself up and changed for bed, teeth brushed and face washed, his chest aching. Then he hears his phone buzz again. 

**Bittle** _Oh, don’t worry honey. I’m very careful._

*

Carter catches Jack on his phone in the locker room before their evening game the next night against Russia. 

“Are you streaming ice dancing, Zimmermann?” 

Jack doesn’t look up from his screen, hoping the violent rush of blood to his face stays hidden. 

“I’m following Canadian athletes in lots of sports,” he manages to mumble. 

Carter hums a little and then Jack can feel him hovering behind him for a moment, watching the screen over his shoulder.

“Yeah, Bittle and Duan kick ass, eh?” he says.

“Yeah,” Jack says. 

Carter just hums again and walks away, pulling his jersey on over his pads.

*

 **Jack** _Sorry I didn’t get to see your long program live. Looked great on TV._

 **Bittle** _Thanks, Jack. Guess I’ll have to be happy with my one team medal, and I can’t be too sad about fifth!_

 **Jack** _Yeah, fifth is awesome._

 **Bittle** _Wait a minute. WE WON AN OLYMPIC SILVER MEDAL!!!! It’s all good, hon!_

 **Jack** _Haha. So are you staying now that you are finished?_

 **Bittle** _Hell yes. We are skating in the gala at the end, and plus I have some hockey to watch!_

 **Jack** _Haha. Hope you can._

 **Bittle** _I’m required to. I’m Canadian now, remember?_

*

Jack finally bumps into Bittle while he, Ransom, and Bonesy are walking home from the bus after winning their last round robin match, an afternoon game against Finland. 

Well, they don’t so much bump into each other as Eric Bittle runs the length of the courtyard shouting, “Jack Zimmermann!” at the top of his lungs, and then flinging himself into Jack’s arms. 

Jack catches him, and holds on tight, Bittle’s momentum carrying them in a careening circle before Jack can find his footing. It’s only when he’s set Bittle back down on the bricks that he realizes he’s grinning like a fool and saying, “Hey there, hey Bittle.” 

Bittle’s face is flushed with the cold and he’s wearing a huge scarf, Canada mittens, and what appears to be two hats on top of each other. “Fucking _finally_ ,” he says, his big brown eyes locked with Jack’s. Jack hasn’t remembered Bittle’s face quite right; he’s happy to stare for a moment now, trying to remember each angle.

“Glad to see you,” Jack says, hoping his expression isn’t giving too much away.

“You too, you gigantic oaf.” Bittle sneaks in under Jack’s arm for a quick, additional side hug that makes Jack’s skin shiver. 

Bonesy is pinging looks back and forth between them. “How do you two know each other?”

“Aww, we met at this big ol’ press event, and we’ve just stayed in touch ever since,” Bittle says, pulling off one of his mittens and holding out his hand to Eliot. “Eric Bittle.”

Bonesy shakes back. “I know who you are. Congrats on the Silver.”

By the time introductions are made, Larissa Duan, who Jack had seen trotting towards them to catch up with Bittle, joins the group. 

“Jack, this is Larissa. Lards, this is Jack.” Bittle grins. “Now, she can finally forgive me for not introducing you in Ottawa.” 

Larissa Duan’s handshake is so firm it hurts. “Stay out of the penalty box in game one, Zimmermann,” she says in greeting. 

“That’s my plan,” Jack replies, and she gives him what he hopes is an approving nod and slight smile. 

They all chat together for a few minutes about medals and games, and how different their sports are, even with ice skating in common.

“I’ve always thought there should be more crossovers,” Ransom says with a grin. “Like if you score in hockey while in a camel spin, you get two points.”

“Or if you manage a puck during part of your ice dance you get a massive bonus,” Larissa adds. 

“Especially if it’s in the second half of the program!” Bittle adds. 

Jack frowns. “Goals aren’t worth more in the third period.” 

Bittle elbows him. “Well, ain’t you more tired then? Maybe they should be.”

“I think Jack and Eric should be the color commentators for this new sport,” Bonesy says, eyebrows raised at Jack.

Bittle claps his hands. “Oh lord, brilliant, Jack! We’ll call ourselves _Gay Guy, Straight Guy_ , and we’ll sell ourselves as the next Tara Lipinski and Johnny Weir. Only I don’t think I can get you to bedazzle anything.”

“That’ll be my job,” Larissa added, giving Jack a pointed look. 

But Jack hardly hears her past the ringing in his ears. _Straight guy_. A reply he’s not allowed to think, much less say, sits on his tongue like lead. 

Luckily for Jack, the group chatters on for a few more minutes, until Bonesy starts making sounds about needing to get back to meet the team for their night out. They have a rare day off between the round robin games and the medal round. Everyone starts walking together back towards the athletes’ housing.

Jack hangs towards the back of the group, still weighted down by unsaid words. He almost lets the moment pass. But Bittle had said, _I don’t hide one single fabulous thing about myself_. Jack lets his lips open, still unsure what will come out.

“Um, Bittle.” Jack wants to reach out and touch his arm to get his attention, but he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

Bittle turns back to him, smiling, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“I want to… talk to you about something?”

Bittle looks once over his shoulder to where Larissa and the others are walking away. “Oh sure, hon! What is it?”

Jack’s mouth is bone dry, but he keeps going. “Um, more like… could we go somewhere… to talk?”

Bittle’s expression shifts, just slightly, from open and curious to concerned. “Is everything okay?”

Jack nods, trying not to panic. “Yes, yeah. Just… want to talk.”

“Well, sure. Of course, hon. But aren’t you gonna go and meet that team of yours?”

“It’s okay. I can meet them later. Or not. It was no big deal.”

Bittle’s shoulders seem to relax then, and he loops his arm in Jack’s as if they do that sort of thing every day. “How about heading to my apartment for a while? It’s not far. I have pie! And coffee.”

Jack swallows hard. “That sounds great.”

*

Bittle’s apartment isn’t in the athlete’s village. It is just outside of it in a regular apartment complex with a small courtyard. 

“Three years ago, Katya, our coach, rented this place for these weeks, fully paid,” Bittle says as he unlocks the door and ushers Jack inside. “It was her pledge of faith in us, that we were Olympians. Whenever we’d lose focus, we’d just remember that these apartments were here, waiting for us to make the team. Pretty nice set-up, if I do say so. And it sure didn’t hurt that Katya told us she would literally kill us if she’d spent all of that money for nothing.” 

Jack laughs. Bittle shuts the door behind him.

“Can I get you something to drink or eat, hon?” 

Jack is parched, can hardly swallow, but he shakes his head. 

“Well, I’m gonna start some water for camomile tea. And there’s rhubarb-strawberry pie when you want it.”

Jack nods. He’s awkwardly standing by the door still, unsure of what to do next. Bittle has removed a full layer of outerwear and headed to the little kitchen. His cheerful voice calls out, “Sit down, Jack. What is it you wanted to talk about? Maybe we should start planning _Gay Guy, Straight Guy_ while you’re here!”

“Um, actually, about that…”

Bittle’s head appears at the doorway to the kitchen. “Oh lord, I know that tone. You hated that whole idea, didn’t you? Lord, I let my mouth run away again. I was just foolin’.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jack says.

“What is it, then, hon?” Bittle is holding a kettle, the lid open. He’s still wearing his scarf. Jack stares at it. 

“It’s fine. It’s a fine idea, but… it’s just…” Jack takes in a huge lungful of air. “It couldn’t be called that.”

Bittle’s brows pull together. “No?”

Jack focuses on the rosy curve of Bittle lips, remembers how he’s learning that being brave doesn’t always look like heroics. 

“I’m not straight.”

The words hang there, heavy in the silence. Bittle stares at Jack with an expression he can’t possibly interpret, a sort of stunned blankness that makes Jack feel like he’s weighed down with anchors. The kettle dangles precariously from Bittle’s fingertips. 

“Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle says finally, and his lips curl up into a hint of a smile. “Are you coming out to me right now? Is that what is happening?”

Jack swallows his terror and nods, still standing lamely in the entryway. 

Bittle doesn’t hesitate. He walks out of the doorway to the kitchen and doesn’t stop until he’s able to wrap his arms around Jack, still holding the open kettle in one hand. “Oh my god, Jack. This is amazing. Thank you for telling me.” 

Bittle’s voice is muffled against Jack’s chest. Jack can’t get his hands to do more than gently touch Bittle’s back. 

“Euh, sure. Yeah,” Jack says. Bittle’s body is pressed against him, warm and close; he’s in uncharted territory. 

Bittle releases him from the hug and steps back, staring at him, his mouth wide open in what Jack guesses to be surprise. 

“Oh lord, honey, is this one of them open secrets where everyone you know is fully aware except me, and I’ve been wandering around labeling you straight right and left like a clueless ass? Because if it is I’m _mortified_ and so sorry. I’m supposed to know better than that, oh my god.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, definitely not. I’ve actually… I’ve never told anyone before.”

Bittle freezes again. “What?”

“I mean, my parents know, and this guy I used to… he knows. But I didn’t… I’ve never just said it before. Out loud.”

Bittle once more looks like he’s about to drop the kettle. Jack jams his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself from doing anything else with them at this point. 

Bittle seems to come back to himself enough to notice that they are still standing there in scarves and coats. “Jack, I think we need to sit down for a minute.” 

“Yeah. Okay.”

Bittle disappears back into the kitchen. Jack takes off his coat and wanders into the living room. It’s simply furnished in a generic, hotel-lobby sort of way, but there’s a comfortable sofa to sit on and signs of Bittle’s residency, including clothing, an open tube of Icy Hot, a rack of skating costumes in garment bags, and several empty seltzer cans discarded around the room. 

He feels light-headed with relief, but Jack’s heart still races at what he wants to say next. 

His text alert buzzes. It makes Jack almost jump out of his skin. 

**Bonesy** _Already one beer in, Zimmermann. There’s a bunch of us here. You coming out?_

Jack feels his neck redden. He silences his phone without responding.

Bittle bustles out a minute later, looking like he’s had a moment to gather his own thoughts. “All right, Zimmermann. The kettle is on and I have a thousand questions.”

Jack laughs. “Okay.”

Bittle settles onto the sofa next to Jack and folds his legs up under him. He looks at Jack with those big brown eyes, shaking his head, and Jack’s heart stutters for a moment. 

“Only three people know?”

Jack nods. “Four now.”

“Isn’t that hard?”

Jack licks his lips. He’s blocked himself for years from thinking about how hard it is, until Bittle had reminded him in Ottawa. 

“Yes.”

“My god, Jack.”

“It’s just the way it is. I’m used to it. But… I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t be.”

Bittle shifts around so that he’s directly facing Jack. “Why me, Jack? I’m flattered as all get-out that you trust me with this, but honestly. And why now?”

Jack hesitates. But then he remembers Kloves, shoving him away and stalking off down the corridor, and his voice comes, stuttering, but there. “I actually had a reason to tell you. After Ottawa, I was so glad that… I realized I, euh, I wanted to... ask you out. But I thought I should tell you first. So. I did.”

Bittle is frozen, that same empty stare plastered on his face. “You wanted to… like… on a date?”

“Well, I don’t know what a date with me really looks like, since we couldn’t exactly go anywhere, but… yes.”

Jack’s heart might explode.

“Oh my god.” Bittle murmurs.

Jack can’t read anything about Bittle’s tone, expression, body language. He’s like a blank slate. “What does that mean?”

Slowly, a huge smile erupts on Bittle’s lips, moves into his eyes, and then spreads through his entire body. 

“Well, _yes_ , Jack Zimmermann. It means yes.”

Fear and joy roll through Jack’s body like a wave. He can’t look away from Bittle and he can’t think of a single thing to say. Bittle’s eyes are huge, his cheeks pink.

The kettle whistle sounds from the kitchen, jolting Jack out of the moment. 

Bittle hops up and says, “Oh lord, what timing. I’d better get that.”

Jack rises to follow, feeling a bit like he’s floating. In the kitchen, Bittle starts brewing a pot of tea, and then, without further discussion, pulls out flour, salt, and butter and says, “I’m sorry, Jack, but at a moment like this, I have to bake something. Wanna help me?” 

That’s exactly what Jack wants. He rolls up his sleeves. “Yeah, sure.”

Bittle sets Jack to cutting up apples while he assembles a crust.

There’s an electrical current in the room running between him and Bittle, lines of energy and excitement that send shivers along Jack’s skin and make the hairs on his arms stand up. Bittle keeps up a running commentary on the pie-making, and Jack nods and responds, adding his own thoughts. Every few minutes though, Bittle’s voice rolls to a stop and Jack glances up to find him staring at him, a look of amazement on his face. 

“I did wonder why the heck you were texting me so much,” Bittle blurts into one of the silences.

Jack feels his neck get hot. “Yeah. I wondered at first, too.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, I wondered why I was texting you so much, too,” Jack adds, keeping his eyes fixed on the bowl of fruit he’s stirring. “But I figured it out.”

Bittle doesn’t say anything right away, so Jack risks a little look over to him. He’s rolling out crust and not looking at Jack either.

“Well. That’s good,” Bittle says at last, and Jack grins down at his pie filling. 

Jack’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He wipes his hands and takes a quick look. 

**Bonesy** _Where the hell are you? The beer is flowing. Kloves is acting like a dick. Get out here._

Jack looks over at Bittle, who is carefully settling the rolled dough into a pie tin. 

**Jack** _Sorry Bones. Staying in for now._

“Everything okay?” Bittle asks, looking over at him. 

“Yeah. Everything’s great,” Jack says, and turns his phone off. 

*

They get the pie in the oven, and then Bittle suggests they make some food for dinner. Jack needs to load up for their next game, so when he discovers that Bittle’s apartment has a stocked kitchen, he agrees. He cooks up enough pasta that Bittle gasps watching Jack drain it in the collender and then laughs out loud when he sees Jack’s plate.

“I need calories,” Jack explains. 

“All of them?” Bittle teases, and Jack laughs. 

Together they settle at the table to eat, Bittle somehow getting Jack talking at length about his nutrition plan and his regular training schedule. Jack feels himself going on too long, but Bittle seems interested the whole time. 

When their plates are cleared and washed, they settle together onto the sofa again. It’s quiet for a minute. Jack looks at his own hands. He can feel Bittle’s eyes on him. 

“Jack?”

“Hmm?” 

“Maybe this is what it could look like?”

“What?” Jack looks up.

“Stay in. Cook together, maybe watch a movie or something?” Bittle runs his tongue over his lips. “What do you think?”

Jack thinks for a moment. “So, this is our date?”

“It could be.”

“Yeah?”

A crimson blush spreads up Bittle throat. “And, hon, if it was, now is when I’d wanna kiss you.”

Something roils deep in Jack’s gut. “Yeah?”

“If it’s not too much. Lord, two hours ago I thought you were my nice, straight, hockey friend, so there’s no rush, sweetheart, and honestly, we’re at the Olympics and you should be getting back to your team, and I just won a medal, for Christ sake, so I’m happy enough without having to rush anyth—”

Jack leans in, lets one hand cradle the soft skin of Bittle’s cheek, and kisses him. 

It’s a soft press of lips, once, twice, again. As the kiss lingers, Jack is flooded with how much he’s wanted to do this since the first day they spoke in Ottawa. When he’d been with Kent, years ago, they’d never kissed like this, melting together and letting their lips mold into each other. Everything disappears: Kloves and Bonesy and Team Canada, Shitty and Holster, how he lets everyone in his life down, the entire fucking Olympics. It’s all gone in the face of Eric Bittle’s lips against his own. 

Jack pulls back after a moment. Bittle’s eyes are closed, his face upturned. He looks utterly trusting. Jack leans in again.

“If we get too distracted, we might burn the pie,” Jack says against Bittle’s lips, as they pause for breath.

“Jack, I’ll have you know I never burn a pie,” Bittle replies. 

Jack grins. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“Oh lord, maybe I liked you better when you were straight.” 

“Yeah?” 

Bittle pulls back far enough to look Jack right in the eye. He cocks his head to one side, contemplating. 

“No, sir. This is loads better,” he says. 

Jack thinks it is possible they might never stop kissing. 

****

The early morning sun peeks through the utilitarian blinds in Bittle’s rental, waking Jack. 

He takes a minute to remember where he is, stretched out, shoes and socks off but still fully clothed on Bittle’s bed. Eric Bittle’s arm is draped over Jack’s chest, and one of his legs is trapped beneath one of Bittle’s. 

They were up far too late, talking and kissing and eating pie, then trying unsuccessfully to watch a movie. They’d agreed they were both a little freaked out by the abrupt turn of events between them, and had held off from moving much beyond a good solid grind against each other in the most heated moments. Keeping their clothes on helped, even though it was equal parts frustrating and a huge turn on.

Jack checks himself. He feels almost hungover, even though they hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. 

“Bittle?” he says, turning his head so that his nose almost touches Bittle’s. His eyelashes are so long.

“Lord, Jack. We’re waking up in bed together. Call me Eric already.” He rolls over so that he’s mostly on top of Jack, his chin resting on Jack’s chest.

“Eric,” Jack tries.

“There you go!” Eric cranes himself up and kisses Jack, sweet and practical. He makes a move to get up, but Jack wraps his arms around him tight and leans up to kiss him again. Slower this time. It’s morning, and Eric still wants to. Jack feels electric. Eric’s body slides against him. God.

“My morning breath,” Eric says, but it’s a half-hearted protest, belied by Eric scooting up Jack’s chest, lips parted, to deepen the kiss and get his legs fully straddled over Jack’s hips. 

Jack can’t stop a few sounds from escaping.

Eric pulls back a little, his hands in Jack’s hair. He whispers, “You really are not straight, sweetpea.”

Jack smiles. “I really am not.”

They kiss for a few long, languorous minutes, wrapped up together. Jack knows they need to stop, or they need to have sex, but he can’t quite figure out how to do either. The terror of what he’s doing starts to creep back in around the edges of the blissful bubble he’s been in since the evening before. 

Jack surfaces from their deep kisses, pulls back to catch his breath. 

“I need a… can we just…”

Eric’s face is flushed but calm. He runs a hand through the hair at Jack’s temple, and Jack shivers at the intimacy of it. 

“I hear you, hon. I need a moment myself. Good lord, honey biscuit. You are somethin’ else.”

Jack actually lets himself laugh. “Canadian, eh?” 

“I bleed maple syrup, Jack Zimmermann, and don’t you forget it.”

Jack sighs. “I should get my phone and let someone know that I’m okay. Bonesy is probably worried about where I am.”

“Okay, hon.” Bittle kisses him once more, then gives him a little pat on the chest before he rolls over and off the bed and retreats to the bathroom. 

Jack lies still for a long moment, willing his erection away, the flutterings of panic starting in his gut. He’s actually done it. He’s done it. 

Now what?

Jack turns on his phone. 

There are eighty-seven texts and twelve phone messages waiting for him. Jack’s chest constricts, hard. On his best day, he gets four texts and a phone call. 

“Something’s going on,” he says out loud. 

“What’s that?” Eric calls from the bathroom.

Jack pulls up his calls. The most recent three are from his parents. Shit.

Eric emerges from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a washcloth.

“Sorry, I have to...” He gestures to his phone, fear closing down his throat. 

“What’s wrong?” Eric sits next to Jack on the edge of the bed, his hip and thigh pressed tight against him, one arm around his shoulders. 

Jack’s too panicked to stay still. He hops up. “My parents.”

Eric nods, his face a mirror to Jack’s worries. “Of course, hon. Call.”

Jack stands and turns away. 

His father answers after one ring. 

“Jack. Thank god.” The relief in his father’s voice is enough to freeze Jack’s heart. “Where are you?”

It’s the last thing he thinks his parents would want to know. He can’t think of a quick lie. “Allo, Papa. I’m just... with... a friend. What’s going on?”

His father’s voice is suddenly echoing and distant, like he’s moved the phone away from his ear. “It’s him, Alicia. He’s okay.” Then back into the phone. “We were so worried, Jack. No one will talk to us, and we couldn’t figure out where you were.”

“Why… what’s going on?”

It’s very quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. Then, “You don’t even know. He doesn’t even know anything. Alicia. Thank god.”

Jack wants to throw the phone across the room. “Papa. What’s going on?”

Jack is suddenly aware that Eric has come up next to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“There was an… incident. Last night. We thought you might have been… involved.” Jack can hear the hesitation in his father’s voice. “Some sort of fight at a bar. Members of the team were there. Apparently one person is in the hospital? We can’t get anyone to tell us anything more. We hoped you could tell us, Jack. But frankly, I’ve never been more happy to hear that you cannot.”

“An incident,” Jack parrots. “The team.”

Eric’s hand disappears from his shoulder, and Jack glances over to see that he’s on his own phone, tapping quickly. 

“Jack…” His father’s voice is very soft. “The early reports don’t sound good for your teammates.”

As the words sink in, Eric holds up his phone for Jack to read. The headline says, **Members of Team Canada arrested near the Olympic Athletes’ Village**. 

Jack stares at it, and then into Eric Bittle’s concerned expression, and he almost whites out.

“I’ll read more,” Eric mouths at Jack, looking back down at his phone. 

“Jack?” His father’s voice in his ear, keeping him grounded. 

“I see the headline, Papa. I better go. I need to find out what’s happening.”

“Call us, Jack, when you know anything. We are getting on the plane this afternoon, so we’ll be there soon if you need us.” Jack’s parents had always planned to come out for the medal round. 

“Papa.” Jack hesitates, unsure if he wants to ask. “Do you know who?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I know this is… well, I can’t imagine how you are feeling.”

Jack can’t either, because he’s not feeling much of anything. 

“I’ll phone when I know anything.”

“We love you.”

Jack ends the call before he has to listen to anything else. 

*

Somehow, Jack ends up seated on Eric’s sofa with a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. He scrolls backwards through his texts, trying to piece together what’s going on. The morning messages are all variations on a theme.

 **Maman** _Please call us, Jack. We are worried._

 **Guy** _Jack, please be in touch. Your whole management team is here for you._

 **Ransom** _I just woke up to some crazy shit on the news. Do you know what’s happening?_

 **Tater** _Zimmboni, what happen with bar fight? Sound bad. (((_

 **Team Canada Official** _Mandatory Team Meeting, 10:00 a.m., Room 4A, Absolutely no comments to press_

But chilling Jack to the bone is the long string of texts from Eliot the night before. He scans and reads a few.

 **Bonesy** _At the police station, Jack. Fuck. Not sure what’s going to happen. Can you come down here?_

 **Bonesy** _Jack, are you up Fuck I need to you to be up_

 **Bonesy** _Fuckfuckfuck Jack why aren’t you here_

 **Bonesy** _Oh my god, some fucked up shit is going down. I need to get out of here._

And when he scrolls far enough back:

 **Bonesy** _It seemed funny at first with these gay guys at the next table, but Kloves is being such an ass. I wish you were here._

Jack reads that one many times.

“I’m supposed to be at a special team meeting at ten,” Jack says eventually, his mouth dry. “I don’t even know what time it is now.”

“Eight-forty,” Eric replies. He’s sitting next to Jack scrolling through his own phone.

Jack nods and looks down at himself. He’s still in his rumpled clothes from the day before, shirt partially unbuttoned, socks lost in Eric’s bedroom. He needs to get back to change before the meeting.

“I better go.”

“Okay,” Eric says. His voice has none of its usual brightness.

“I don’t…” Jack starts. He can’t even form a coherent thought, much less a sentence. “I don’t know what will happen,” he finishes lamely.

“Just get to your meeting, Jack,” Eric says. “And if you can, call me later.”

Jack desperately wants to lean in, kiss Eric one more time before he leaves, but everything feels dangerous and implicating and unknown. He has so much to lose. Jack hops up instead, and starts buttoning his shirt. 

“I’ll call you,” he says. 

He’s almost back to his room before he remembers he didn’t drink the coffee Eric made for him.

*

There is a gauntlet of press to get past on the way into the facility. Jack keeps his head up and barrels through the barrage of questions with his mouth firmly shut.

Ransom is just ahead, but he looks back and slows his pace so Jack can catch up.

“Crazy shit, huh?” Ransom asks, once they are well past the line of reporters. 

“I don’t know anything,” Jack replies, keeping his voice low so that he’s not overheard. 

Ransom whispers back, so soft Jack almost can’t hear him. “Heard there was a fight and that hella gay slurs got thrown around. Our guys all ran off when it got bad. Left some guy bleeding with like three broken ribs.”

Jack isn’t sure what he thought he’d hear, but he’d hoped it wasn’t anything like that.

“Jesus.”

“I hope I heard wrong, man.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

*

The conference room is stuffy, the air stale with nerves. Jack tries counting his teammates as they assemble, but he keeps losing track. There are a bunch of guys missing though. No Kloves. No Bonesy. 

Coach Halvert’s collar is not tucked into his suit jacket properly, and he’s shiny with sweat. 

“All right gentleman. I’ll keep this short. There’s no need to pussyfoot around any of this. We are in a worst case scenario.” Halvert pats his forehead with a handkerchief before continuing. 

“Here’s what we know. Chad Kloves has been arrested for assault.” Halvert pauses for a moment and Jack can feel this news sink into the room. “We’ve got the lawyers with him, and of course, we are all going to cooperate with any sort of official investigation. About an hour ago, we received notice from the IOC that due to the charges against him, Mr. Kloves is banned from participating in the remainder of these games.”

The room is silent. No one even shifts in his seat or clears his throat. 

Jack doesn’t dare breathe. He knows he’s supposed to be upset, but instead he feels a tightness in his chest loosen. Kloves will be gone.

“There’s more,” Halvert continues. “There were five other members of the team with Kloves at the time of the incident. Tailium, Adderson, Culler, Courot, and Bonet. They all left the scene with Kloves, but then turned themselves in about an hour later. They talked with police and were released back to athlete’s housing. However…” Halvert stops here once more, his face stony and hard. “The IOC has also banned them from all further competition.”

Bones. Oh, Bones.

The tense silence in the room is broken with a cacophony of reactions to this news. Someone near Jack mutters, “That’s bullshit,” and Ransom whispers, “There’s gotta be more to this, right?” Jack thinks of those texts from Bonesy sitting on his phone, and feels like he might be sick.

After a moment, Halvert holds up his hand and says, “Quiet down, quiet down.” The mutterings roll to a stop. 

“This is an ongoing investigation, so we are gonna do this right, gentlemen. You may have already heard rumors, especially that this was something to do with sexual orientation or something. Now, I do not know any of the facts, and neither do you, and I’m pretty damn eager to see that the police can do their job fairly. So, if you are asked for comment, you will say that you are supporting the investigation and that is all you will say. No speculating.” 

Ransom raises his hand, just next to Jack. “Coach. Can you tell us anything more? The news was saying—”

Halvery holds up a hand again. “Nothing more right now.”

Jack manages to swallow hard enough to find his voice. “Um. How is he?” 

Halvert looks at Jack, surprised and almost smiling. “I spoke with Chad earlier and he was in decent spirits considering.”

“No. The um… the guy. That he hurt.” 

Halvert’s lips pinch into a thin line. “I haven’t got that information, Zimmermann. I was busy worrying about our players.”

Jack feels like he’s been kicked. Halvert moves on to another question.

From right behind Jack, a quiet voice. “He’s stable. But pretty banged up.” 

Jack turns around, and it’s Carter, the kid from Calgary. He meets Jack’s eyes and nods once. Jack stares at him, confused, and then turns back to Halvert, who is still speaking.

“Gentlemen, all I can add at this time is that we are lodging a formal protest of the bans against the five players who are not charged with assault. The committee doesn’t believe that simply being present during an incident makes one culpable to the incident.”

Jack hears himself say, “You’re defending them.”

Halvert looks him right in the eye, and says, “Of course, Zimmermann. Just like we would if it were you.”

 _If it were me_ , Jack thinks as Halvert turns away.

The meeting shifts to game strategy. Edding steps up to talk about an added ice time at two o’clock so they can work with their new lines. 

Jack can feel the places on his back where Eric’s fingernails had dug in the night before. He hardly hears Edding through the roaring in his ears. 

*

 **Jack** _Six guys are banned from play. We’re reorganizing for the game tomorrow._

 **Papa** _Okay. Do you know more about what happened?_

 **Jack** _Not really._

 **Papa** _Are you okay?_

 **Jack** _I just want to play._

 **Papa** _I get it. We arrive pretty late. We’ll text when we land._

 **Jack** _Okay_

*

Jack and Ransom manage to dodge through the press again on the way out without having to make any comments. 

“Shitty is beside himself,” Rans says, looking up from his phone as they walk back the athlete’s village. “He says there’s a video someone took with their phone. And it’s bad.”

“I don’t think I want to see that,” Jack says. 

“Yeah, you’re pretty close with Bonet, right?”

Jack doesn’t correct Ransom. Bonesy is not the reason he doesn’t want to watch. “Mmm.”

“This shit sucks, man.”

They part ways in the lobby of their housing. 

As Jack nears his room, he sees another of the doors in the corridor is propped open. Eliot’s. There’s music playing, and a bag sitting out in the hall. 

Jack slows his pace, trying to decide what to do. He’s never even sent a text back to Bonesy’s endless messages the night before. But he needs to know more. He has to.

“Bones.” Jack tries to lean casually in the doorway. His heart is racing.

Eliot is throwing clothes into a suitcase. Jack has roomed with him before. He’s usually a tidy packer. 

Bones looks up and his face crumples with relief. His eyes are puffy, like he might have been crying. “Zimmermann, oh shit. It’s good to see a friendly face.” 

Jack nods, and crosses his arms. “Bones. What happened?”

“I’m getting sent home, Jack.”

“I know.”

Bones looks exhausted. He tosses a handful of t-shirts into the open suitcase and then sits down on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair. He’s been Jack’s friend for a long time.

“Jack…” he says, his voice quiet, “why didn’t you come last night?”

It’s so not what Jack expected him to say, he doesn’t know how to respond. “Uh, what even happened? Halvert wouldn’t tell us anything,” he finally manages.

Bones sighes and shakes his head. “It was so fucking stupid. Shit. You really want to know?”

Jack nods. He needs to know. 

“It was just pitchers and food. Fuck.” Bones stops and runs his hand through his hair, draws in a long breath. “But then these dudes come and sit at the table next to us, like seven or eight of them, speaking Spanish, and they are just… obvious, you know? Flaming. Like one of them had on booty shorts and body glitter and it’s the damn middle of winter. So, they’re hard to ignore. We started this kind of… back and forth thing with them.”

Jack feels like he’s made of stone, listening to this. “What do you mean?” 

“Like Tailium was all _you boys from around here, you come here often_ , like, I don’t know, fake flirting to take the piss or something. It was a bunch of gay dudes, I don’t know about that shit, but they seemed like they were totally into it, and like, coming over and buying us shots and being all _nice ass, big boy_ , but it was mostly Spanish so maybe that’s not what they were saying? It was weird, but kind of fun, I guess. But Kloves started in pretty fast being a dick, making all these little comments, like he didn’t get that it was teasing or whatever, but he just sat there drinking through most of it. I could tell he was simmering hot.”

Jack can picture it all, and can even see himself sitting there at the table next to Bones, not saying anything. His chest hurts. 

“The guy with the body glitter, when we were all pretty drunk, he bought Kloves this bright pink shot, and when it was delivered, he gave him this wink and wave from the other table, and I don’t know, Kloves just started up after the guy. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was a lot. I mostly remember something like I will kick your fucking faggot ass, and one of the other guys at their table stood up to stop him, and that’s when the fight started.”

“It was a fight?”

Eliot rubs at his eyes. “I don’t know if he had a chance to fight back.”

Jack feels sick again. “Then what happened?”

“Some guys were able to pull Kloves off after a minute, but the dude was really hurt, and people were filming and calling the cops and we panicked and ran. Shit, I just realized I don’t think we ever even paid our bill.”

“You ran.”

“I just wish you’d been there, Jack. You would have done something.”

 _I wouldn’t have run_ Jack thinks. _God, tell me I wouldn’t have run._

Out loud he says, “ _You_ were there,” but Bonesy doesn’t seems to hear him.

“I can’t believe my career is fucked by this crap. It was harmless. Shit, Jack I didn’t do anything!”

Jack closes his eyes. He can hardly get the words out. “Why not?”

“Huh?”

Years of anger, of listening to Bones’s veiled comments and jokey homophobia bubble in Jack’s chest. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

“Are you pissed at me?” Eliot looks incredulous. “Holy shit. Do you… you think I deserve this, Jack? Those guys were flirting with us. They didn’t have to do that.”

Jack can’t listen any longer. “You could have done something, Bones. You could have stayed.” Or taken Kloves out of there at the first sign of trouble. Or called him out when he started making comments, told him to stop. Or, weeks ago decided to not put up with a bigot just because he’s good at hockey and a teammate. 

Jack is furious, and he’s not even sure who he’s mad at. Bones, Kloves, hockey culture, the world. 

But mostly himself.

“I gotta go.” Jack pulls himself upright and turns to head down to his own room. 

“We are gonna have a problem when we get home, Zimmermann,” Bones shouts after him. 

_We are,_ Jack thinks, but he doesn’t turn around. 

*

Jack sits stiff on the edge of his bed, too keyed up to nap, too flooded to do much of anything else. He should be watching video of the Czech team, prepping for tomorrow, but he can’t focus. He picks up his phone again. 

**Jack** _Meeting is over._

He stares blankly at the screen until a response comes in. 

**Bittle** _Are you okay?_

Jack looks at the question for a long time. His father had asked the same thing. 

**Jack** _No_

 **Bittle** _I’m not either._

Jack’s breath stops. It had all been too good to be true, with Bittle.

His phone buzzes once more. It’s a notification from The Hockey News. 

**Olympics Chaos: Canadian hockey team pulling out of medal round in protest of five player ban**

Jack’s entire body freezes. He stares at the tiny words for a minute, trying to make them mean anything other than what they mean. Another text comes in like a bullet.

 **Team Canada Official** _IOC rejected the appeal for our players. Decision made to leave the tournament rather than continue. Please do not report for scheduled ice times. Flight information will follow._

Jack’s so drained, he can’t even find the will to send Eric a reply. 

*

Jack’s phone rings about thirty minutes later. Probably Guy, or his father, or maybe Ransom? He answers without opening his eyes.

“Zimmermann.”

It’s quiet, and then, “Jack?”

Eric’s voice. Eric, calling him.

“Bittle?”

“You disappeared.”

A huge lump forms in Jack’s throat. “I… I didn’t know…” He pulls in a long breath. “Sorry.”

“I thought… it’s a bad situation, Jack.”

“You know everything?” Jack asks eventually.

“I think I’ve heard most of it. And... there’s a video.” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to the hospital later.”

“You are?” 

“I want to take a pie.”

Jack’s heart sinks. “You know them.” 

“Alejandro Bello. He’s a Spanish figure skater. Skates singles. The fellow who got attacked, Tomas, is his friend. It was a whole table of his entourage, I hear. They’re fun.”

“Shit.” Jack can’t take this. 

“I saw the announcement,” Eric says, and Jack is thankful that he’s still talking. “That the committee is pulling the team.”

Jack nods until his voice works. “Yeah.” 

“What are you gonna do?”

Jack is thrown by this question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… are you going to just leave?” 

“I don’t really have a choice.”

Eric is silent for a long moment. “There’s always a choice, hon.”

Jack wants to cry at the honest tone in Eric’s voice. “That’s not how hockey works.”

“How’s that?”

Jack struggles to explain, his words coming hard. “I can’t… stand out, or make a problem for the team. I’d never be invited to play again. It’s just… not how it works. ”

“Well.” Eric’s voice is calm, but iron hard. “Maybe the way hockey works isn’t so great, Jack.”

Jack’s known for his whole career that his sport isn’t perfect, that he’s had to give up huge parts of himself to be welcomed in, and he’s done it, willingly, for years. He’s marinated for so long in the belief that _self_ is infinitely less important than _team_ , the idea that he can do something besides just quietly pack up and leave is terrifying. His mind whirls with the freedom of it.

Jack sits up so quickly he almost knocks his lamp off the side table.

“Jack?” 

“I don’t have to.”

“What’s that, hon?”

“What time is it?” It’s suddenly so clear to him, what he needs to do. 

“Just after one. What is it?”

Jack stands and looks around for his coat, finds it discarded on the floor. “I have to get going. I need to be somewhere.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack says. He ends the call before Eric can say anything else. 

*

Jack speed-walks towards the hockey venue, hat pulled low, hoping if he’s moving quickly enough, anyone who recognizes him won’t have time to stop him. 

He catches up reading his texts on the way. 

**Ransom** _WTF is going on? Shitty says we are flouncing because some guys are actually facing a consequence. I think he might be right._

 **Tater** _Where are you? Hear news of team. Please contact. I worry_

 **Maman** _At the airport. Text if you can. We heard something about withdrawing the team? We are going to be there soon if you need support, honey. Love you._

Jack doesn’t try to respond to any of them. He keeps walking. 

*

The locker room is eerily silent and dark. It’s almost two o’clock. It should be loud and full of guys chirping and stretching and stinking up the place. But Jack’s the only one there.

After a brief search, Jack finds the light switch. There were so many mornings in juniors when he was the first one on the ice. He used to be able to open every rink he skated in. But he hasn’t known where a light switch is for years now. 

He pulls off his coat and shoes and starts to gear up. 

There’s the sound of a distant door opening and shutting. Jack tries to ignore the nervous flutterings in his gut and just keep dressing. 

“Who’s in here?” A familiar voice from the corridor. Lou Dodds, one of the senior equipment managers, speaking in his stern prairie drawl.

“It’s Jack Zimmermann.”

Lou appears in the doorway holding a handful of sticks. “You miss the memo or something, Zimmermann? Teams out. I’ve gotta start packing us up.”

Jack continues lacing his skates, the routine soothing. “Nah. I’m staying.”

Lou cocks his head to the side like Jack’s speaking in tongues. “What?”

Jack nods. “We have a two o’clock skate. You can leave my gear. I’ll take care of it.” 

Jack pulls on his jersey. 

Lou is staring at him. “What are you doing, Zimmermann?” 

Jack reaches out, and Lou frowns but then goes around the corner and gets one of Jack’s sticks for him. Jack smiles. “I’m playing hockey. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” 

*

There is a surprisingly large number of people in the stands of the practice rink, looking down at the empty ice. Jack supposes Team Canada _not_ showing up for this practice is a story in itself. When he’d imagined this, he’d imagined it with an empty arena. Too late now. 

Jack lets his skates hit the ice. No turning back. He glides out and drops his bucket off by the net, then does a few laps to warm himself up. He tries not to look up, but he can see camera flashes and phones lofted high, can hear a few shouted questions that he mostly manages to block out. 

When he stops for some water after about twenty minutes (from the fountain; there are no trainers to set up hydration) he’s accosted by several reporters who shout some version of “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you leaving with your team?” at him over and over again in various languages. 

“I’m not taking part in the team protest,” is all he says, and then steps back out on the ice to gather up the pucks and run a few speed drills. 

Panic starts to set in after that. Jack can feel the sweat pooling under his arms, his skin clammy and his vision a little blurred. He’s no activist. What is he going to say when the media actually corners him? 

He goes through the motions for about ten more minutes, his mind an accelerating echo chamber of panic, when he hears another set of blades slide against the ice behind him. 

Carter. The kid is fully geared up and skates right up to Jack. 

“You looked lonely out here. Thought you could use some company, Zimmermann. Passing drills?” he says, grabbing a puck with his stick and skating out to the blue line. 

Jack can’t believe it.

The camera flashes are thick from the stands again. 

“You with me, man?” Carter says.

Jack feels a shiver run through him that shatters some of the ice that is clogging up his veins. 

“Yeah.”

Carter’s cheeks are bright red and his eyes are fixed on Jack’s face. Jack realizes Carter’s just as scared as he is. That settles Jack’s nerves and grounds him back on the ice.

“Lou still back there. Did he set you up?”

Carter grins. “Yeah. He’s so fucking confused right now, man.”

Jack’s pulse is high, but the familiar routine of drills helps. If Carter heard he’s here, Canada officials have to have heard as well. Jack just keeps breathing. 

They take a brief break to cool down. Carter slides up next to him and leans in. 

“I don’t know who in this crowd is responsible, but you’re all over Twitter and Instagram right now, Zimmermann. Came down here when I saw. I’m not walking away over this shit if you aren’t.”

“All I ever want is to play hockey,” Jack says. 

Carter pats him on the shoulder. “Then let’s play.”

*

Off the ice, they dodge past the phones and cameras and shouted questions (“Don’t you support your teammates?” “Are you doing this for the gay community?” “Is your father aware of your actions?”). Jack feels almost stoned as his adrenaline drops. He’s never really spoken much to Carter in the first place, so when they are finally alone in the locker room, they both just start pulling off their gear in an eerie, tense silence. Lou is nowhere in sight.

“You okay?” Carter asks, once he’s down to his under armour. 

Jack continues to unlace his skates. “Sure.”

“Zimmermann?”

“Yeah?”

“Um… you’ve completely removed your laces from that skate, man.”

Jack stares blankly at his own handiwork, unsure what to think or say. He has no idea what happens next.

At that moment, someone bangs on the outer doors in the corridor. Jack and Carter start up. 

“Zimmermann! My dude, my fuckin’ shit-ass crazy brother! Let us in!” They can hear Shitty’s hollered words echoing off the cold hallways.

Carter looks at Jack with a quizzical expression. 

“Uh. Friends,” Jack says by way of explanation, and Carter nods. 

Jack pulls off his skate and pads down to the doorway. He opens it a crack and Shitty, Holster, and Ransom all squeeze through as the assembled press outside the door shouts questions. 

The door slams shut behind them. Shitty stares at Jack for a moment and then launches himself at him.

“Bro! You fucking angel! Holy shit, do you know the wicked amount of crap you just stirred up, my friend? Every fucking team in hockey is pissing themselves trying to figure out how to not look like homophobic dickwads right now because if you.” 

Jack lets himself be pulled into a huge hug, Shitty still ranting on. Jack catches Ransom’s eye over Shitty’s shoulder. He’s grinning a little, but he also looks drawn and worried. 

When Shitty lets him go, he steps back and holds Jack at arms length by the shoulders. “Dude, I’m representing you. Whatever you need, lawyer Knight is at your disposal. I think this might be the reason I have my law degree, brah, to be here for you guys, right now.”

Jack swallows hard and looks over at Carter. “You think we need a lawyer?” 

Shitty raises his eyebrows. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Ransom clears his throat. “The team hasn’t commented yet, but… you know they won’t like this at all, Jack.”

Jack’s throat is bone dry. He manages to nod, trying to remember how confident he’d been in this plan only an hour ago. 

“We got you, brah,” Shitty continues. “I’ll start researching precedent when athletes have a disagreement with their organizing committee. You assholes…” Here he gestures to the four of them, “... start figuring out what the fuck you want to do next.”

Jack looks at the small group in front of him. Carter, still sweaty from their drills, looks like he’s thinking really hard. Holster’s eyes are huge and he’s leaning against Ransom, who is staring at Jack with scary determination. 

“Whatever happens next, I’m in too,” Ransom says quietly. Carter holds up his hand and Ransom meets his palm in a brotherly high five. 

Tears try to flood Jack’s eyes, but he blinks them away as quickly as he can.

“I want…” Jack starts, but then there’s too much he wants, all at once. He can’t figure out how to say it, not the big stuff, not the parts about who he is and how the world should be. So instead he says, “I want to keep playing. That’s what I want to do.”

Ransom nods. “Yeah, bro. Yes. So, let’s figure out how to do that.”

*

The Czech team has the next practice slot, so their little band scrambles to pack up the remaining gear that Lou Dodds has left for Jack. Shitty can hardly look up from his phone where he is deep in research mode, but when Ransom loads a gear bag onto his shoulder, he doesn’t protest.

“Where to, gentlemen?” Holster asks, both arms loaded down with bags.

Jack can’t think even one more step ahead, so he’s thankful when Ransom says, “There’s great security in the Athlete’s Village, so how about my room? The press won’t be able to follow us in there.” 

“I’ll call a car,” Carter says.

Outside the locker room, the questions being thrown out by reporters have become more complex and specific. “Are you still in contact with Eliot Bonet?” “Have you heard from your coaches?” “What about the culture of homophobia in mens’ sports?” and one that makes Jack’s heart pound: “Do you think this was a hate crime?”

When the car door finally shuts off the barrage of questions, Jack remembers how to breathe.

*

The hockey athlete’s housing is buzzing with nervous activity when they arrive; players getting their bags packed, standing in awkward whispering groups in the corridors. All eyes follow the five of them as they hustle to Ransom’s room, conveniently on the ground floor and close to the main entrance. No one says anything, and Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the ugly carpet. 

They drop the gear bags inside the door to Ransom’s room, and plop unceremoniously onto the furniture. Jack sits in a stiff backed chair, his mind still a blur of uncertainty. What has he done?

For a long moment, it’s quiet. Then, softly, there’s a knock on the door. 

Jack meets eyes with Ransom and Carter as Shitty shouts, “Who the hell is it?”

“Tess and Smithy,” is whispered back. Carter’s brows pull together, but then he stands and opens the door. It’s the team’s two goalies, Poul Tessen and Jay Smith.

“Hey.”

The two men are standing there in shorts and slides, peering in. “Hey. So… can we get in on whatever this is you got going on?” asks Tess. 

Jack hears himself say, “What do you mean?”

“We don’t want to go, either. Not over this. I mean…” Tess pauses, as if carefully choosing his next words. “... sometimes you’ve got to stand up when something fucked is going down.”

“You seen the video?” Smithy asks. 

Jack shakes his head. 

“I love some of those guys, man. But they fucked up bad. Sometimes, you gotta feel it when you fuck up, eh?”

Jack can’t respond. He’s afraid if he tries to speak, he’ll cry. 

“So, can we join you? Maybe make a statement together or something?” Poul Tessen is a big guy, a beloved veteran and spokesman for the sport. But he’s asking like a schoolkid trying to join a pickup game. 

Carter steps out of the way and Shitty says, “Shit, dudes. Come right in.”

*

The idea that there may be other allies out there spurs a brief session of rapid texting. Ransom has a number of ideas about guys who may not be okay with the protest, as does Tess. And Carter. 

Shitty looks up from his laptop, where he’s been composing an argument to allow athletes to stay even if their organizing committee is leaving the Games. “You assholes think you can drum up a sympathetic coach? I think it would really sweeten the deal for the IOC if you had coaching staff on your side.”

The room falls into thought for a moment. Then Smithy says, “Edding. I bet we could get Edding.”

Jack shakes his head, remembering Edding in Edmonton. “I doubt it.”

“Nah, Edding has a daughter who’s a lesbian. He doesn’t talk about it much, but he’s real close with her and her wife. Their kids are his only grandchildren. I think he’s probably real fucking pissed at his bosses right now, but he’s stuck.”

“Like all of us,” Carter mutters. 

Jack’s brain is trying to keep up with this flow of revelation. 

“He’d be risking his entire career,” Tess adds. 

“We all are, though. I mean, right?” Carter asks. The room gets quiet again. Jack closes his eyes and tries to remember the taste of Eric Bittle’s apple pie. 

“The day we allow this shit be normal is that day we all fucking lose,” Ransom says into the quiet. 

Heads start nodding around the room and Jack lets out a shaky breath. 

“I’ll call Edding,” he says. 

*

As the evening wears on, they manage to find a total of nine players, two trainers, and one coach committed to staying and speaking out against their teammates’ actions. 

“The worst are the guys who fucking know we are doing the right thing, but don’t have the balls to join us,” Smithy says after he ends a call and slams his phone down. 

“So what’s the goal here, jokers?” Shitty asks, his eyes still on his laptop screen. “Press conference? What?”

Jack looks up at Shitty, confused. “We’re gonna play tomorrow,” he says, sure that everyone knows that’s the plan. 

Everyone in the room looks at Jack, and he realizes he may not have made himself clear. 

“We have a game.”

Tess places a big paw on Jack’s shoulder. “Zimmermann, there’s nine of us, and two of us are goalies.”

Jack shrugs. “I didn’t say we would win. I just said we should play.”

Jack watches as questioning glances are passed around the room. 

Finally, Ransom grins and breaks the silence. “Fuck yes, we should play!”

Carter and Tess fist bump, nodding, and the rest of the guys join in agreement. Suddenly, the entire mood of the room lifts. Jack can feel it like a cooling breeze.

“Yes! Let’s play hockey, boys.”

“Nine on twenty. We’ve faced worse odds, eh?”

Holster, who had remained surprisingly quiet throughout the afternoon, staying near Ransom and making calls when asked, stands and shouts. “I may be a fucking American, but gentleman, put me to work! Water boy? Check. Equipment manager? I shall. Compose inspirational theme song? You don’t even need to ask.”

The room erupts in cheers. 

“Shitty, seriously though, you think there is any chance we’ll be allowed on the ice?” Ransom asks, once they’ve quieted down again. 

Shitty doesn’t say anything immediately, but his expression is grim. 

Jack’s text alert buzzes in his pocket.

 **Papa** _We are here. Where should we meet you?_

Jack’s heart accelerates. 

“Shitty. Would having Bob Zimmermann involved make any difference?” 

*

On the way back to his room to meet his parents, Jack stops for a moment and leans against the wall in a quiet corner of the corridor. It’s getting late. He knows Eric must be horrified and furious at everything about Jack and Jack’s life right now, but Jack can’t get the feel of Eric’s lips out of his head. In fact, he’s hardly thought of anything else all day.

 **Jack** _Sorry about everything._

He gets a text back right away. 

**Bittle** _Jack. Oh my goodness. Where are you?_

 **Jack** _I’m going back to my room for a while. I’m sorry again._

He doesn’t get a message in return.

*

Bob and Alicia Zimmermann are waiting just outside of Jack’s room when he comes around the corner. He’s held himself together for most of the day, but seeing his mother breaks the dam. Tears start pooling in his eyes, blurring his vision, before he even reaches them. 

“Papa. Maman. I… “ Jack can’t get any more words to come.

His mother wraps her arms around him while his father takes his key card and opens the door. 

“Come inside, honey,” Alicia says, pulling Jack along and out of the public corridor. 

He’s not sure how long he cries into his mother’s shoulder, deep hard sobs, but when he’s finished, Jack feels like he can breathe more easily than he has all day. 

*

It takes a few minutes for Jack to catch his parents up on everything that is going on. He only omits a few essential details so that he doesn’t have to tell them anything about Eric Bittle. At least not yet. 

He’s not sure why he can’t bring himself to explain that he’s met someone he really likes, and that fact has made everything happening around him that much more personal. Maybe he’s just not ready to talk with his parents about his relationships? That’s not so strange, is it? Jack isn’t sure. 

Alicia holds his hand as he talks, and Bob starts to pace, a frustrated frown on his face. 

“I wish I was still allowed to punch people in the face,” Bob says after Jack describes Coach Halvert’s talk that morning. “Some of the guys on our Olympic committee are men I’ve known for decades, Jack.”

“No punching,” Jack’s mother says, her voice soft. 

“Will you go with Shitty to the IOC, Papa? He’s got documentation and precedent all sorted out, but I think they might listen more seriously if you’re there too.” 

“You couldn’t keep me away, Jack. Where is he?”

There’s a quiet knock on the door. Jack wipes at his eyes and stands to answer. “That’s probably him now.” 

Jack opens the door. 

Eric Bittle is standing there. Jack only has a moment to deal with his disbelief before Eric flings his arms around him and holds on. 

“Jack Zimmermann, what did you do? Eleven people who don’t have a single clue we even know each other tagged me in tweets about you this afternoon, you know. This is the story of the Olympics. You brave, amazing madman!” 

“Eric…” Jack tries, but Bittle won’t stop. He kisses Jack on the neck and leans back, smiling so sweetly Jack would be melting if he wasn’t completely horrified. 

“You are an icon, sweetheart. Standing up to those homophobes and just…”

“Eric,” Jack says again, more firmly, and Eric falls silent for a moment, looking up at him expectantly. “I should introduce you to my parents.”

Eric freezes against Jack and his eyes get huge. Jack suddenly realizes, in the midst of his deep embarrassment, that Eric is here. That’s he’s here. 

“Right now?” Eric says quietly. 

Jack nods. 

“They’re in the room?”

Jack nods again.

“But... your mother is Alicia Swan,” Eric whispers against Jack’s chest. “I used to have a wall of Alicia Swan looks taped to the inside of my closet door.”

From behind Jack, his mother says, “Oh don’t worry honey, when Jack’s around, I’m just Mrs. Zimmermann.”

Jack takes a deep breath and turns around to face his parents. They are both standing there with little meaningful smiles. Jack can’t look at either of them. His heart is racing. “Maman, Papa. This is Eric Bittle.”

Eric’s eyes are enormous. “Pleasure to meet y’all,” he says. 

“Ice dancer, right?” Bob asks, approaching to shake Eric’s hand. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Alicia adds. 

Eric nods vigorously in her direction. “Oh my goodness,” he murmurs.

Jack tries to recover. “Eric and I met in Ottawa.” That didn’t help. “He’s… we’re friends.”

Bob nods knowingly. “Ah. I see.”

Eric looks up at Jack, a crazed smile on his face. “I sure don’t wanna be a pest. You enjoy your family time and I’ll just… see you later, Jack.” 

Jack bites his lip and says, “Yeah, okay.”

Eric’s face is an amazing shade of red. He briefly waves at Alicia and Bob and then darts out the door and down the corridor. 

Jack closes the door behind Eric with a firm click. He can’t bring himself to turn around. 

His father’s voice breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Alicia, I forget. What’s that term? Butt dial?”

“No no, sweetheart,” she says with a perfect deadpan. “I believe it’s _booty call_.”

Jack feels heat flash into his cheeks. He turns and walks to his bed to sit down. “Stop,” he manages.

“Such an odd time to be dropping by,” Bob says, scratching his chin and grinning. “Makes one wonder.”

“Stop,” Jack tries again. 

“A handsome, charming young man coming to your room late at night, darling,” Alicia continues, her eyes sparkling in a way that makes Jack want to hide under his covers. 

“Maman…” 

“Medal winner, I believe,” Bob adds.

“Papa…”

“Well, we should go make a game plan with our dear Mr. Knight. It will be a pleasure to see him again after all of these years,” Bob continues, grabbing for his jacket and holding out Alicia’s for her. 

“We’ll get out of your hair, honey,” Alicia adds, “in case you have anything else you need to... do.”

Jack closes his eyes and rubs his hands over his face. “Just go.”

Jack can hardly look at the smug, pleased expression on his mother’s face. She pulls him up into hug, and Jack lets himself fall against her. “I think we just got a good reminder of why we are in this fight, honey.”

His father kisses his cheek and pats his back. “Leave it to us, kid. We got you.”

After they leave, Jack lets himself cry again, just for a minute. 

Then he texts Eric.

*

When Eric knocks a few minutes later, its even softer than it was the first time. 

Jack opens the door wide so Eric can see there’s no one else in the room.

They both start to speak at the same time, then stop. Their eyes meet and Jack is sure that this is the most confusing day of his entire life. 

“You go on, sweetheart,” Eric says, stepping in and letting Jack close the door behind him. 

Jack swallows. Just seeing Eric walk in, even into this anonymous, temporary room, feels like a miracle. 

“Sorry. I should have said that my parents were here.”

Eric shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t you dare. I should’ve told you I was on my way.”

Jack leans his back against the door, closing it all the way. Eric is in a tight pair of leggings, thick maple leaf leg warmers, and an oversized hooded Canada sweatshirt. He looks so cozy Jack wants to just curl up with him, warm and soft, and never get up again. 

“I wasn’t sure of you’d want to see me after… everything,” Jack admits. 

Eric nods. His hands are deep in the pocket of his hoodie. “It’s been a rough day.”

Jack swallows the fear that creeps into his chest. “Yeah.”

“But my lord, Jack Zimmermann, do you have a clue what you’ve done?” 

Jack rubs the back of his neck, trying to hold in a bubble of panic. “I’m… no?”

Eric smiles then, and reaches out his hand. “Can I show you?” 

Jack feels tears creep back into the corners of his eyes. He steps away from the door and takes Eric’s hand, warm and soft, in his own.

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Eric pulls Jack over to the bed and climbs on. He gestures for Jack to sit next to him against the headboard. Eric presses in close to Jack and pulls out his phone for them to look at together. Jack is lightheaded from the feeling on Eric’s warmth against his side. 

“The tag that’s really blowing up right now is #OlympicsPride, but your tag is pretty fun all on its own. It ain’t all good on here, sweetheart, but let me show you the people who are standing up with you.”

They scroll and read. Celebrities (or so Eric tells him), athletes, hockey teams at every level, hockey fans, people who clearly know nothing about hockey… so many voices thanking him for saying that what had happened in that bar was not acceptable. 

Jack is overwhelmed. 

Eric puts down his phone eventually and wraps his arms around Jack, burrowing his face into Jack’s shoulder. “You did that, Jack.”

Jack shakes his head, because that’s not right. 

“No. Without you, I would have just gone home with the team.”

Eric’s fingers tighten their grip on Jack. Eric, who had visited a friend in the hospital today, who had every reason to run screaming from anything related to hockey, but who is here anyway, because of whatever this is between them.

“Oh lord,” Eric says, looking at Jack, his eyes brimming with tears. 

Jack leans down and kisses him, because he can, because he really likes this man, and because he’s tired of being afraid. Eric hesitates a moment and then kisses him back, deep and purposeful, bringing one hand up to the back of Jack’s neck.

“It’s probably a bad idea for you to stay here tonight,” Jack says against Eric’s lips. 

“Yeah. Probably,” Eric replies. Then he pulls off his hoodie in one move and tackles Jack backwards onto the mattress, smothering him with a deep kiss. 

*

Jack hasn’t had sex with a man since Kent, and with only a handful of women in the meantime. So he’s not entirely sure if he’s _allowed_ to feel as much as he feels this first time with Eric. Maybe it’s just that he’s been starved for closeness? Or it’s the intensity of the situation, with everything that’s happening with the team? Maybe it’s just the fact that he finally came out to someone? Something must be heightening the experience. 

Because if it’s just _Eric_ making his feel this way, he’s not sure how he’s going to be able to walk away from him ever again. 

When they are both finally naked (Eric’s right leg warmer is the last thing to go) there is a long moment where they do nothing but wrap up tight around each other, as if trying to feel every exposed stretch of skin at once. They don’t even kiss, not for minutes, just gently move together, until Jack is sure he’s felt each of Eric’s toes on him, every muscle in his core, the soft skin of his throat, every part of him. Time just goes away.

Eric brings Jack back with a gentle tug at the hair on his abdomen. 

“Sweetheart, will you let me make you feel real good?” he asks in his soft lilt. 

“Too late,” Jack mutters. “Already real good.”

Eric smiles. “I bet we can do even better, sweet pea.”

Jack leans in to run his tongue along Eric’s collarbone. “Canadian, eh?” he says with a smirk. 

“Don’t you sass me when I’m about to go down on you, mister.”

Jack’s entire body twitches, and he pulls Eric in for a long kiss. “Is that what you’re gonna do?”

“If you want.”

Their eyes lock. Jack lets his hands run down the firm muscles of Eric’s back. He can’t manage to croak more than a, “Yeah.” 

“And I’ll show you who’s Canadian,” Eric mutters as he starts to kiss his way down Jack’s chest. Into Jack’s skin he starts murmuring, “... mmm… moose… Saskatchewan… Brian... Mulroney…”

Jack is absolutely certain he’s never laughed in the middle of sex before. So maybe, he thinks, as Eric’s lips and fingers find the soft skin of his lower belly, this really is something new. Something he’s allowed to feel that he’s never felt before.

That’s his last coherent thought for a while, but he holds onto it. Later, when Eric is asleep and wrapped up against him, Jack thinks about it again.

*

 **Papa** _Hearing with the committee at 8:00. You don’t need to attend. Edding, Knight, and I will represent the group._

 **Shitty** _Your old man is a fucking miracle worker. Got us in to state our case first thing in the morning. Leaves you enough time to prep for the game if you get cleared to play._

 **Guy** _Got the proposed press statement from Knight and Edding. Looks good. I made a few amendments and returned with approval. Have you seen yet?_

 **Group Text** _It’s Shitty. Meet at 9:30 in Oluransi’s room for an update. Assume its a game day._

*

Eric is up, showered, and dressed at 5:00 a.m. when Jack stirs for the string of text alerts on his phone. 

“Hey.” Eric settles in on the edge of the bed near Jack. “I don’t want to cause any hubbub walking out of here, sweetheart, so I should go now.” 

Jack pulls on his sweatpants and settles next to Eric on the bed. The room smells like stale sweat and shampoo. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jack says, even though every part of him wants to pull Eric back down onto the pillows for another few hours. “I need to get up too.”

“Any news?” Eric is lacing his shoe. Jack stares. 

“Sounds like we at least get a hearing this morning. The plan is to play as planned this afternoon.” 

Eric looks up, his eyes wide. “I thought the team left? Except that Carter guy?”

Jack shakes his head. “Nah. There’s more of us.”

Eric’s face gets this sort of glazed expression. Jack realizes he might be on the verge of crying. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Enough to try.”

“Holy shit.”

Eric rises up to pull Jack to his feet in a full body hug. Jack buries his face in Eric’s freshly washed hair and just breathes. 

“I’m not going to come out right now,” Jack says, and he feels Eric tense up against him. He’s been up almost all night, thinking this through. “Not publically. I don’t want this whole thing to be about me.”

There’s a pause, and then Eric says, “Did you think I wanted you to?”

“No, but I just wanted you to know. I think I will eventually.”

Jack can feel his own heartbeat against Eric’s chest, steady and calm. 

“Oh lord, Jack.” Eric pulls back and cranes up into a soft kiss, long and lingering and far too arousing for a goodbye. 

Eric eventually pulls back and pats Jack on the chest. Jack reluctantly lets him go. “Okay, mister, that’s enough. I have things to do you know.” 

“I’ll call you when we know.” 

Eric leans up for one last kiss. “You do that.”

*

_FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE_

_The International Olympic Committee has approved special status for members of the Canadian Men’s Ice Hockey Team who wish to remain in competition. Players, coaches, and staff have consent to participate in all aspects of these Olympic Games as independent athletes. Those wishing to be given this special status must apply and be granted status. A list of approved athletes will be released later today._

_*_

_PRESS STATEMENT_

_The undersigned members of the Canadian Men’s Ice Hockey Team stand together against the withdrawal of our team from the Olympic Games. Though the banned members of the team are our friends and teammates, we believe that the decision of the IOC to remove them from play was fair and appropriate given the seriousness of their actions. We do not wish to forfeit our opportunity to compete as ambassadors of our sport on this world stage. In addition, we want to strongly speak out in support of the LGBT community and especially for the victim of this crime, Tomas Fernandez. We will continue to proudly represent the great country of Canada as independent athletes with special status, and will play in this afternoon’s game against the Czech Republic in his honor._

*

Jack works hard to focus on game strategy when half of his brain is still in bed with Eric, floating and unreal. 

Shitty and Edding bring the news of their approval to the assembled players as soon as the hearing is over. The committee had been eager to let a positive story emerge out of the bad press and negativity of the day before. According to Shitty, he and Bob had hardly needed to say a word before the decision was handed down. 

Bob had stayed behind to talk to the press. Jack looks up the current Olympics news on his phone and sees a still of his father, front and center, wearing a gameday suit and a small rainbow flag pin. 

When Jack looks up, the goalies are sorting out their roles in the game. 

“You stay in goal,” Smithy is saying to Tess. “I’ve got mad skills on D.”

Carter snorts. “When did you last play D, dude?”

Smithy considers. “Mites?”

Even Jack smiles at that. 

Edding sips at his coffee from his perch at the edge of Ransom’s bed. “This is gonna be rough, boys. No real lines, just subbing in when you can. And don’t you dare get yourselves thrown in the bin just for a rest.”

Jack looks around at the assembled ragtag group of players and supporters, joyfully plotting out what is sure to be a humiliating and exhausting loss. Holster is in the corner assembling their mess of gear into some level of organization. Ransom is surrounded by a group of guys trying to sort out how the subbing rotation will work. Carter is wrapping his stick with Pride tape and helping the goalies talk through strategy. Shitty is texting rapidly, muttering to himself. The room is buzzing with energy. 

Jack feels a swell of something in his chest. He speaks before he realizes he’s going to. 

“Hey, uh…” 

The room falls silent, all eyes turning expectantly to him. Jack clears his throat. For a moment, he feels like Eric is sitting right beside him, an encouraging smile lighting up his face.

“...um...thank you,” he finishes lamely. 

Ransom pats Jack on the shoulder. “You don’t have to thank us, Jack. We’re all in this together.” 

Jack’s heart is in his throat. “No, I mean… personally. It means a lot to me. Personally.”

Jack can almost hear his teammates thinking, trying to decide what he means. No one speaks, so Jack fumbles onward. 

“I’ve had to put up with it all for so long. The jokes and the comments. The... not being myself.” 

Jack looks around the room at the faces all staring back at him. It’s very quiet. Someone, maybe Tess, says, “Huh,” like he’s figuring something out.

“I never thought… I never thought anyone would stand up. I’m not someone who ever thought I’d be able to…” Jack voice catches. He swallows and goes on. “So I just wanted you to know. It means a lot.”

Jack clears his throat again and turns his attention to the carpeting. That just happened. He’s just said that. So. He’s not panicking, not even a little. The room feels safe. Maybe even safer now that he’s let himself speak. Warmth fills his chest. 

Ransom breaks the silence. “Well, shit, son.” He throws an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Pass me the damn Pride tape already. Let’s wrap shit in rainbows!”

The room breaks into laughter. Jack smiles and lets out a breath. “I’m not quite ready for that,” he says quietly. 

Ransom nudges him with his shoulder and grins as Carter tosses him the tape roll. “Nah, we get it, man. That’s why you have us.” He pulls out a long strip of tape and bites it off dramatically with his teeth. 

Shitty has been paused in mid-text since Jack started speaking. Now he stands, throws his phone to the ground and launches himself at Jack. Jack barely manages to catch him in a full body hug. 

“God damn, you brave-ass motherfucker,” Shitty says. “That’s exactly why you’ve got us.”

“Let him go, Knight,” Edding says. “We’ve only got nine players and if you hurt him I sure as hell ain’t putting you out there.”

Shitty lets Jack go with a quick pat to the ass. Jack grins, his heart still pounding, and pats him right back. 

“Back to strategy, boys.”

*

They break up the meeting to take an hour or so for any game day prep they can fit in. Jack is entirely off his schedule, including the fact that he hardly slept the night before, so he doesn’t even try to recreate his usual meticulous routine. This won’t be anything like a normal game anyway, so he’s alright.

Alone in his room, he tries to get purchase on what has happened over the last two days: Kloves and Bonesy and Eric, but mostly _himself_. It’s all so slippery and unreal, he can hardly hold onto it at once. 

He thinks back to the night before last, when he’d made his choice to stay in with Eric instead of going out to meet the team for a beer, and everything that came after that. The question lingers, like a deep splinter in his flesh. What if he _had_ been there?

Easy enough to be the hero now, Jack thinks. Shitty had called him brave, and maybe he is. But standing up to Kloves, right to his face, drunk and ready to fight? That’s a different sort of courage. He might very well have run with the rest of them. With Bones, his friend. Maybe not, but...

Jack pulls out his phone. 

**Jack** _Hey Eliot. When I get home, lets talk._

He stares out the window for a long minute, and then adds. 

**Jack** _And if you want, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend._

He hits send then pockets his phone. It’s time. 

*

 **Tater** _Zimmboni! ))) Got seat next to Canada bench. I give tips in loud voice through glass okay? Coach say not to go but i say Go Canada! )))_

 **Papa** _Sorry we did not make it back in person this morning. We will see you after the game. Your mother and I are so proud of you._

 **Bittle** _Got a ticket! And just fyi, honey, a few friends are joining me!_

*

The entire remaining Canadian contingent, coach, trainers, and players, meet in the foyer of the athlete’s housing in their game day suits. As civilians, Holster and Shitty have gone on ahead to meet Bob and Alicia and find their seats. 

Edding has hired two large SUVs to drive them, and it makes everything very real to see that their entire team will fit in two cars. 

As they head to the doors, Carter tugs on Jack’s sleeve and holds him back for a moment. 

Carter leans in and speaks in a quiet whisper. 

“So, yeah, um… what you said before? About yourself?” His eyes meet Jack’s. “Me too."

Jack feels himself staring, trying to process the fact that another player is telling him that he is not the only one. That he's not alone.

Carter continues. "You should come over when you’re next in Calgary. We got shit to talk about, I bet.”

Jack can only nod. "March 12, Falconers will be in Calgary then."

"Great. March 12 it is," Carter says with a little smile. Jack watches him walk on ahead for a long moment before he can get his own feet moving again.

*

The arena is chaos, even outside- press, fans, protesters. Jack ignores them all equally. He’s used to running the gauntlet, but this is a whole different world. He hears questions shouted at him in at least five languages as soon at the SUV door is opened.

They enter the locker room to find Lou Dodds there, waiting for them. 

“Got as much set up as I could, so get started and tell me what else you need as you go,” he says, all practicality. 

The team stops in the doorway, staring at him. Jack finally says, “Lou, you didn’t leave?” Jack knows he’s been with Canada hockey for almost forty years, only to give it up now.

“Nah,” Lou grumbles. “You said you were here to play hockey. I got that _special status_ so I could help you dummies out, eh? Seemed like the right way to go.”

He grabs a stick from Ransom’s hand and heads into the gear room. 

Jack has to swallow hard and focus on getting himself ready in order to keep his tears in check.

Getting out on the ice is even more overwhelming.

Maple leaf flags, Pride flags, a huge, loud section of Czech fans. Warm ups feel bizarre, one half of the ice packed with Czech players, the Canada end spacious and clear. Jack locates his parents just behind the glass, next to Shitty and Holster, who has most of the crowd in the seats behind him dancing along with some choreography he’s making up. 

It’s a lot to take in, as if the Olympic rings under the ice were not enough already.

Jack’s Falconers’ teammate, Joza Cerny, skates over to the center line while Jack is stretching. 

“Zimmermann.”

“Hey Jozie,” Jack says. “Sure you’re okay being seen with me?”

Jozie’s kind eyes meet his. He rests one his gloved hands on Jack’s shoulder and leans in close to his ear. “Must have been a hell of a few days, my friend.”

Jack nods. He can see at least three photographers pointing lenses in their direction. “You tell your boys that we expect you to play just as hard as if we were still at full strength. No pity.”

Jozie winks and flashes Jack the huge gap where his left incisor should be. “Would not dream of it, J.Z. Just what I want to hear.”

“Watch your back though, Joz. Tater’s sitting next to me and shouting shit all game, so there’s that.” They look over toward the bench and Tater stands up and howls towards them, waving his arms like mad. 

“Just like any other game, then,” Jozie chirps as he skates off. 

Jack is so grateful for his teammates. 

*

It takes Jack a few minutes to realize there is a particularly raucous group of spectators seated about halfway up the stands. His eyes are drawn there eventually by the dense amount of multicolored clothing, as well as several large flags and signs. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s seeing dozens of different national team colors all sitting together.

Jack skates over to Carter. 

“What’s that group up there?”

Carter looks up. “Don’t know for sure, but word this morning was that some of the ice dancers were trying to get a group of out athletes together to come and support us. Maybe that’s them?”

Ransom slides up, joining them in looking up to the stands. 

“Isn’t that your friend Eric up there?” he asks Jack.

When Jack looks again, he sees that yes, Eric is right in he middle of the fracas, waving down at them frantically, holding a huge Canadian flag. When Jack shields his eyes and looks more closely, he sees a number of familiar faces near him: Larissa of course, and some who he’s followed in the news as they went public with their identities- skiers, skaters, a bobsledder, a curler. But there’s so many people in the group. It’s amazing. 

“Yeah, that’s Eric.” Jack is shocked to hear how calm his own voice sounds. His heart feels like it might burst. 

“Cool,” Ransom says. 

“Yeah,” Jack agrees.

“Game time, boys,” Edding shouts over to them, and Jack has to force himself to turn away.

*

The entire game feels like magic. The crowd, the noise, the rainbows- on Canadian and Czech gear alike. A weird energy flows through Jack and into the air around him, holding him up. 

Canada’s one goal comes on a powerplay in the first period, when Jack’s legs and lungs are only just starting to feel the effects of the endless shifts. He sends a little scuttling pass right onto Smithy’s tape, and Smithy one times the puck right into the back of the net. 

Smithy stands there for a moment, jaw dropped. From behind him, Jack hears Ransom say, “Shit, son, ain’t you supposed to be a goalie?” 

“You ever seen a goalie with such a sweet wrister?” Smithy shouts as Jack pummels into him against the boards.

“You really learned something back in Mites,” Jack chirps back, before they are both tackled by Tess and Ransom. 

The atmosphere of the game is so infectious, even a few Czech players come out on the ice to join the celly.

*

They had known there was no chance of winning with nine players against the entire talented, hungry, and vicious Czech team, but it hurts anyway when the buzzer sounds and Canada is officially eliminated from competition. 

Jack has never been more exhausted after a game. His legs feel like jelly and he has no doubt that he will need weeks of physical therapy to deal with the tweaks and twists he’d piled onto all of his joints, especially towards the end of the third when he simply had nothing left. 

But tired as they all are, the Canadians all stay on the ice to applaud the Czech team, who had to face this game and all of the press and hubbub just as much as they had, and had managed to not fall apart themselves. 

No one really seems to want to leave the ice at all. Reporters are dashing from player to player for interviews. Jack does a few, but has no idea what he says apart from expressing his exhaustion and his hope that Tomas has a full recovery. At one point, Jack hugs his parents, and at another Shitty, Holster, and Ransom take turns lifting him up and spinning him. But the rest is a blur until he sees Eric.

The crowd of athletes from the stands must have come down to mingle on the ice. Jack sees Eric from a distance, walking gingerly on the slippery surface between a cute moguls skier and Larissa. 

Eric catches Jack’s eye and then starts a little half run towards him. 

“Jack!” 

Jack hears his own laugh as Eric slides and leaps into a hug. “Hey, Bittle,” he says, not trusting his own voice with _Eric_. 

_Someday, I’ll be kissing him out here at center ice,_ Jack thinks. Though it sends a little shiver up his spine, he’s fairly certain it’s a shiver of excitement rather than terror. 

“We didn’t lose to Costa Rica, at least,” he says, for only Eric to hear. 

“You sure didn’t, sweet pea,” Eric whispers back. “In fact, I think you actually found a way to win when you lost!”

They have to let go then, and Jack hugs Larissa, and gets introduced to the cute skier, and then about ten more incredible athletes in a row. But he never stops glancing down at Eric, standing calm and certain, right by his side.

*

They manage to get one last quiet moment as a team back in the locker room, just before heading out into this new world. 

“Maybe we’re all fired from our teams back home,” Tess says cheerfully as he zips his gear bag closed.

Ransom’s eyes get wide. “I guess my dream of coaching for Canada in eight years is pretty much dead.”

“Pretty sure my dad’s gonna disown me for this whole thing,” Carter adds, tying his shoe. “But on the bright side, he was gonna disown me eventually anyway, so at least this will have been for a good damn reason.”

Everyone huffs out tired laughs at the hard honesty. 

Jack has always felt close to his teams, but he’s not sure he’s ever felt as close to a group of guys so quickly or so completely. 

“This was not how I imagined the Olympics would be,” Jack admits. 

“None of us could have imagined this, man,” Tess adds. “But I hope you all know that we’re a team forever now, kids. I’m scheduling our first reunion right now. There will be drinks and stories told.” 

Jack clears his throat. "Maybe we can even, tomorrow... go visit Tomas in the hospital? As a team? If he's willing to see us."

Heads nod all through the room. "Yeah, man. That's exactly what we should do," Ransom says.

Before they go, they pull together into a last huddle. As arms encircle him and bodies press in, a thought fills Jack’s mind, overwhelming in its simplicity. 

Every guy in that locker room knows he’s not straight, but they all hug him close anyway. 

*

Hours later, after press, and dinner with his parents and the old Samwell crew, Jack collapses into a hired car, muttering an address. He pulls out his phone. He has exactly one text.

 **Bittle** _Meet me at my apartment?_

 **Jack** _Halfway there already._

 **Bittle** _Sorry you lost, honey. But I was just thinking about how you have some free time now, before you have to get on home. And so do I. Just a thought._

 **Jack** _Hmm. Interesting._

 **Bittle** _I agree._

 **Jack** _Guess we will have to figure out how to fill our time._

 **Bittle** _Feel free to hurry, sweet pea. Don’t make me start naming more Prime Ministers._

Jack leans forward and asks if they can drive a bit faster.

*


End file.
